Dulce Et Decorum Est, Pro Panem Mori
by DulceEtDecorumSYOT
Summary: The 54th Annual Hunger Games is a twist on the old formula; a battlefield based on ancient stories of a long-ago war, where the tributes must fight, defend, and survive in waterlogged trenches and ankle-deep mud. Who will live? Who will die? Who will stand victorious? It's a long, long way to Victor's Village, but they ain't downhearted yet. (Submissions closed, but voting open)
1. Prologue & Notes: The Supreme Virtue

**Prologue - Obedience Is The Supreme Virtue**

A small drop of sweat trickles down the back of Quoba Varian's neck, from beneath her perfectly-coiffed crimson hair. This is her fourth year as Gamemaker, but the presentation of the Arena never becomes less terrifying. Up close, President Snow is beyond unnerving, with his cold eyes and the scent of blood and roses so heavy in the air around her. He could make her disappear with a snap of his fingers, and she knows it all too well. She has to impress, again and again – and the Arena she thought was so inspired now seems dull, dangerously uninteresting, the idea too obscure, the setting too unphotogenic.

"Trenches, you said?" The President walks a half-step behind her, hands clasped behind his back, apparently unfussed by the thick mud squelching around his shiny boots.

"Yes, sir." Quoba sidesteps a patch of quickmud, deep enough to hold a tribute solidly in place without drowning them, and leads him on towards the Cornucopia. "Just a few of them for now, but we plan to put plenty of digging implements in the Cornucopia. If the tributes can shore them up properly, they'll make for a good defense, shelter, somewhere to hide. If not..." She doesn't finish answering, just waves an explanatory hand at the grasping mud around their boots, before continuing. "We'll plant various traps around the place – I'll show you the blueprints when we get back."

"And food?" His eyes shine disconcertingly. "We wouldn't want our dear tributes to starve, would we, Miss Varian?"

Quoba laughs, a little nervously, beckoning him forwards and around another treacherous patch of solid-seeming earth. "No, sir. Most of the raw materials for food and shelter are found over there." She points to the distant copse, perhaps half a mile away. "Animals, edible plants, wood for fires and for shoring up the trenches... There isn't much there, of course, but it should be interesting to watch them fight for it. And, of course, we'll have some supplies in the Cornucopia."

"Water?"

"We're walking in it," she replies, looking down at the seeping mud. "It'll need purifying, of course, but... well, that's all part of the challenge, isn't it?"

Snow's smile, thick-lipped and deadly, is a welcome sight. Suddenly, it's much easier for Quoba to catch her breath. "I have to say," he muses, "this is an inspired notion. What gave you the idea?"

Again, she clears her throat, her nervousness flooding back. "Well, sir... a while ago, a friend of mine turned up some ancient history books. Very old books indeed. I got the idea from them – from a war centuries ago. There was a poem there, too... by somebody called Owen. It, um..." The thought process leading to this arena was slightly seditious, the result of too long in close contact with the Games. She is just wondering how to proceed – how to explain her inspiration without telling him the whole poem – when Snow chuckles, and her blood runs cold.

"Oh, I know it well. Very good, Miss Varian. Very good indeed." His expression is unreadable, but his amusement palpable. "_Dulce et decorum est, pro patria mori_."

* * *

**RULES/NOTES**

- The submission form is on my profile. Please send it through PM – I'll accept anonymous submissions via review, but it will put you at a disadvantage if I want to talk things through with you. I will not accept non-anonymous submissions except via PM.

- You can recycle tributes which you've used elsewhere, BUT you must not copy/paste their profile directly. Use the submission form on my profile. Any tributes submitted using a different form will get major side-eye from me.

- You may submit up to three characters, but the more characters you submit, the more likely they are to end up dying horribly in the bloodbath. (I will try not to kill your character in the bloodbath if you've only submitted one)

- Submitting a tribute does not guarantee that they will be accepted. I will not accept ridiculously underdeveloped characters, Mary-Sues, or characters which break canon. If I reject your tribute, however, I will PM you back to let you know why, and you can edit your form and re-submit if you wish.

- All questions on the form must be answered. Except the optional questions, because they're optional.

- Any slots without a tribute fully submitted and accepted are open. However, you can PM or review to ask for a reserve - I will still let other people apply for that slot, but I promise not to choose a tribute for that slot until people who've reserved it have sent their submission in. So you can reserve a slot and still not end up with your tribute in that slot, but it won't be because I didn't wait for/read/consider your submission. Does that make sense?

-** NEW RULE** (which I forgot earlier, so I won't hold already-submitted tributes to it): Tributes volunteering from a Career District MUST be 16-18 years old. No exceptions, because we already have exceptions.

- I may PM you to ask questions about your characters if I really can't think how they would react to a situation. You may PM me if you think I'm writing your character wrong. However, please bear in mind that your character will not always win at everything, and that having your character lose or be hurt doesn't in itself mean I'm writing them wrong.

- The fic starts as soon as the first 5 Districts are filled, or as soon as I have 18 tributes, whichever comes first. If a District isn't filled when I get to writing its Reaping, I will make up any missing tributes with my own characters.

- Even if you don't have a tribute to submit, I'd love to know what you think of the concept, the fic itself, etc, etc. Don't be shy!

- There will be a points system to ensure fairness in the Arena and decides who wins and who dies, which I will explain once all the characters have been introduced.

Bring it on!


	2. Tribute List

**TRIBUTES **

**District 1**

**(M) **_Platinum Lux (18)_ - This quiet, irritable Career more than makes up for his uncommunicative nature with sheer brute strength and a sly kind of cunning. Submitted by Alicia Merza. _Mentor: Closs._**  
(F)** _Giada "Nessa" Adassi (15) - _Gymnastic and competitive, this Career is driven by her need to overachieve, and, although she hates the Games which claimed her cousin's life, she believes she can win. Submitted by Rosemarie Benson. _Mentor: Azure._

**District 2**

**(M)** _Avius Bronze (17)_ - Bullying, manipulative, and sadistic, this Career's cruel personality and vicious streak, which makes him disliked by many in his District, will be a great strength in the Games. Submitted by Pinkbookworm7. _Mentor: Iona._**  
(F) **_Brooke Tideson (17)_ - A hard life and an abusive family have driven this Career to close herself off, presenting a cold, merciless face to the world. Submitted by Jaine1324. _Mentor: Caius._

**District 3**

**(M) **_Oliver "Silk" Mykal (15)_ - Driven by his hatred of the Capitol and the Peacekeepers responsible for the death of his mother, this tribute is sly, serious, and strategic, and perhaps most importantly, good with knives. Submitted by Sorceress Of The Fake. _Mentor: Tikker._**  
(F) **_Singe Lightfoot (15)_ - Although shy and awkward, this quick-witted tribute has a near-obsessive interest in the mechanics of the games, and dreams of one day becoming a Gamemaker herself. Submitted by Pinkbookworm7. _Mentor: Zoe._

**District 4**

******(M)** _James Astley (16)_ - The archetypal Career, this arrogant, reckless playboy is nonetheless a force to be reckoned with, backing up his boasts with strong fighting skills and an unashamed willingness to kill. Submitted by JasNorden352. _Mentor: Titan._******  
(F)** _Storm Star (14)_ - This young volunteer, while from a Career District, is not your typical Career; her loyalty, trusting nature, and sympathy for poorer Districts may prove to be her undoing. Submitted by Storm Ocean Star. _Mentor: Mags_.**  
**

**District 5**

**(M) **_Jayden Taevyn (13)_ - Small and scrawny even for his young age, this bookish tribute may nonetheless have an unexpected edge; his knowledge of pre-Panem literature could help him to predict this year's Arena better than anyone. Submitted by Winterkitten. _Mentor: Simeon._**  
(F) **_Robyn Buzz (14)_ - Quiet and reserved, but frighteningly observant, this tribute thinks of herself as a chameleon for very good reason - she's subtle and hides easily, although the attention-seeking nature of the Games terrifies her. Submitted by IWriteStuffWithWordsInIt._ Mentor: Graham._

**District 6**

**(M)**_ Joshua Freeman (12)_ - This tribute is nicknamed "the Joker" with good reason; silly and sarcastic, he's a master of seeming all right - but is he ready for the very serious world of the Arena? Submitted by Sorceress Of The Fake. _Mentor: Isaac._**  
(F) **_Wren Cronin (16)_ - Easily ignored and largely invisible - much to her chagrin - this tribute has a habit of talking herself up, but her forgettable nature may be her strongest asset in the Games. Submitted by SmothersTheWorld. _Mentor: Caitlin._

**District 7**

**(M) **_Alexander Pine (16)_ - A performer by nature, this Peacekeeper's son can only hope that his acting skills are enough to bluff his way through the Games. Submitted by Sorceress Of The Fake. _Mentor: Anja._**  
(F)** _Yariminda Birchwood (17)_ - This tribute is in it for all the right reasons, and with her strength of body as well as character, she may have a good shot at the prize... if she's lucky. Submitted by WhispersOfBliss. _Mentor: Sylvan._

**District 8**

**(M)** _Clark Duty (14)_ - Despite his façade of stupidity, this tribute is intelligent in his own way, and his determination to prove himself to his District may even override his physical weaknesses. Submitted by Vuraangreg. _Mentor: Twine_.  
**(F)** _Lacey Fuller (16)_ - Motivated by family and her concern for others, this fast, intelligent tribute puts on a cheerful face to hide her weaknesses, but her impetuousness could spell trouble for her. Submitted by Necklace of Rope. _Mentor: Spinner._

**District 9**

**(M) **_Bernard Stiles (16) - _This tribute's speed and unexpected proficiency with certain weapons may be enough to get him through the Games, but his social awkwardness could cripple him when it comes to getting sponsors. Submitted by Dante Alighieri1308. _Mentor: Belladonna._**  
(F)** _Daisy Goldenflower (12)_ - Sweet and innocent she may be, and physically weak she certainly is, but this cheerful young tribute may have strengths which nobody yet suspects. Submitted by Goldie031. _Mentor: Lily._

**District 10**

**(M)** _Lysander Bowie (17) _- Although brave and selfless, this tribute lacks foresight, and can be impulsive and foolish; however, he has been trained by a former Victor, which may prove to be the edge he needs over the competition. Submitted by Thomas J. Flynn. _Mentor: Jareth._  
**(F)** _Lailani Riza (17)_ - Tomboyish and tough, this tribute has a sharp temper and a sharper tongue, but her claustrophobia may prove to be a curse in this year's Arena. Submitted by MidnightRaven323. _Mentor: Marco._

**District 11**

**(M)**_ Husk Sarter (15) - _A rage-filled, rebellious pyromaniac, this tribute is not going to take his Reaping lying down - but in an Arena without much to burn, how long can his anger drive him? Submitted by XSellSwordX. _Mentor: Stock._**  
(F) **_Sift Grange (18)_ - Quiet, secretive, and cynical, what she lacks in brawn, this tribute makes up for in subtlety and pragmatism. Submitted by Hel-Lokisdotter. _Mentor: Chaff._**********  
**

**District 12**

******(M)** _Ash Ember (15)_ - This belligerent tribute may be small, but he punches above his weight, with something of an overabundance of courage and fighting spirit. Submitted by Goldie031. _Mentor: Haymitch_.  
**(F)** _Piper Rhuste (17)_ - Silly, optimistic, and often thoughtless, this tribute's energy and courage may be her saving grace. Submitted by Winterkitten. _Mentor: Haymitch_.

* * *

Thanks to everyone who's submitted so far. I wasn't expecting this list to fill up so fast!

People who've already submitted, I forgot to put this on the form, so if you have a preference for what your character was wearing at the Reaping, PM me, okay?


	3. Reapings 1 & 2: A Call To Arms

**1 - A Call To Arms**

The day dawns bright and clear for the cameras in District One, making the District shine as much as the luxuries it exports. The mayor stands at the podium, his address on the history of Panem every bit as enthusiastic as it is every year, and then stands aside, leading the applause as Flavia Honeydell springs to the podium, one hand up to subtly rearrange her elaborate golden wig. "Happy Hunger Games, District One!"

There's an answering roar of applause, which she acknowledges with a flashy smile to the cameras, letting the crowd build up their excitement for a while before signalling for silence. "You've produced a lot of great Victors here. All through the years of the Games, one after the other, lots of wonderful, wonderful tributes, a credit to their District, every one. I'm honoured to stand here in front of you, to be a part of this wonderful, wonderful legacy. So let's see who will carry the torch for One this year, shall we? Ladies first!" Even as she trills it, she's reaching into the ball of names, and the crowd collectively holds its breath as her jewelled fingers close on a slip of paper.

She works the tension, moving slowly and with elegance as she carefully unfolds the paper and holds it up to read it.

"Splendour Argent!"

The cameras pan out into the crowd. Splendour, a fine-boned, dark girl standing among the thirteen-year-olds, has barely stepped forwards when the cry rings out from among the fifteen-year-olds: "_I volunteer_!"

* * *

In the crowd, Nessa Adassi pulls herself up to her full height as she shouts out. She's still dwarfed by most of the other girls around her, but her voice carries, and she smirks slightly as she realises that she's in. She's this year's tribute. Not her rival Lacy, not some little girl who doesn't know what she's doing, but her. Nessa. She can win this. After all, she's seen plenty of Games, plenty of victors who didn't seem to have trained nearly as hard as she will, plenty of victors who were sloppy or lacked planning, plenty who just didn't have her competitive streak.

It occurs to her, briefly, that she shouldn't have volunteered. Not to the Games, not to entertain the Capitol, not after what happened to Ruby. But she doesn't look back as she leaves the crowd and strides up to the stage. Her long, red-blonde hair swishes behind her, her dark green Reaping dress brushing lightly against her bare legs. Petite she might be, but she looks strong and she moves with gymnastic grace.

Onstage, she smiles for the cameras, a cocky smirk which is completely unfaked, and then turns her smile to Flavia, who's asking for her name.

"Giada Adassi," she replies, then, to the camera at the front of the stage, "But my friends call me Nessa. You can call me Nessa."

"Nessa Adassi," Flavia repeats, and flashes her stunning smile at the crowd again, encouragingly. "Ladies and gentlemen, a big hand for Nessa, our first tribute!"

Against the backing of thunderous applause, Nessa steps back to stand out of Flavia's way, a little closer to the mentors at the back of the stage. Now that she's up here, standing with her feet together and her hands clasped behind her with the whole of Panem watching, it begins to sink in. She's done it. She's taken the first step to being a Victor, the first step to proving herself to her father and her mother and everyone. The first step, maybe, to exorcising the scars left in her family by the memory of Ruby's bitter end. She might be young for a Career, and she might not have brute strength on her side, but she'll show them.

The hardest part – getting picked – is over now. Her overwhelming feeling is of pride.

She can do this. She knows she can. She's going to win.

* * *

As the applause for Giada begins to fade, Flavia dips her slim hand into the other balls of names, plucking out the second name with a graceful, economical gesture. "Shall we see who's joining Nessa in the Capitol?" she asks encouragingly, and gestures to silence the assenting roar. The tension draws out like a thread as she unfolds the paper, takes a moment to read it, and raises her head and her voice to read it out.

"Garnet Awe!"

Almost before the cameras have moved to Garnet – a tall, bony fifteen-year-old – there's another shout, this time from the eighteen-year-old section of the stockade. The voice of this second volunteer is low and rumbling, but loud, and it carries easily to the stage. Flavia smiles from ear to ear, beckoning the male tribute up on stage.

* * *

Platinum stands among the other teenagers, but the minute the words leave his mouth, he knows he's not like them any more – he's not just a teenager, but a tribute, and that sets him apart. He glances at his friends Vine and Tiger, one to each side of him. They must be jealous, he thinks; both of them are eighteen, too, and they'll never have the chance he has now – they'll never be glorious Victors. They've missed their chance at the Games... and a good thing, too, because he's a better fighter than either of them and all of them know it.

As he starts up towards the stage, he catches the eye of his best friend, Value, among the seventeen-year-olds. Value gives him a thumbs-up and a smile, which Platinum returns without a word. Value, Platinum muses, will be in this same position next year, mounting the steps onto the stage with the eyes of Panem on him. He hopes that, when that happens, he'll be sitting with the mentors, watching his best friend get the chance he deserves.

But this year, it's Platinum who mounts the steps, passing the mentors and the mayor and nodding to Flavia. He's quiet, thoughtful, and unlike Giada before him, he's hardly even smiling. It isn't that he's unhappy to be here, but he isn't really the smiling type; his green eyes are as flat and expressionless as ever and his broad, tanned face just as unreadable.

"What's your name?" Flavia prompts him, cheerful and excited as ever.

"Platinum Lux." It's coolly spoken, as shielded and unexpressive as his eyes. He stands there a moment, as the applause rises again, then steps back to let the mayor pass. As the mayor steps up to the podium to begin the Treaty of Treason, Platinum's gaze slides sidelong, taking in his District partner. He knows her, but not well; they've shared a couple of training sessions. He towers over her by more than a foot, and where he's strong and bulky she's lithe and petite, but he's seen her gymnastic skills. She'll be a good ally, he thinks – someone quick and agile to counterbalance his brute force. Competitive, too, which will probably make her easy to manipulate into helping him win.

So far, so good. He has a good feeling about this.

* * *

The mayor recites the whole of the Treaty in his strong, slightly sing-song voice. Everyone in the audience has heard it before, time and again, but they all listen raptly, while Giada and Platinum stand side-by-side on the stage, sizing each other up. At last, he finishes his reading, turning towards the tributes and gesturing for them to shake hands.

The contrast is clearer than ever as they turn to face each other; the petite gymnast who's so young for a Career, and the great bear of a tribute who's almost too old to go at all; the pale, pretty girl and the tanned boy with the strong features and splayed ears made all the more obvious by his cropped hair; Beauty and the Beast. Giada's hand almost disappears under Platinum's thick, strong fingers, and she smirks up at his steady, expressionless face.

The rapturous applause begins to fade, and, as the anthem strikes up, the cameras take one last look at District One's tributes, taking in every detail; her blue-grey eyes, the birthmark above his ear, the way the light strikes off her pale skin, the light rustling of his smart tuxedo in the breeze. Then, as the anthem fades out and the tributes are led offstage towards the station, the cameras turn to the crowd, panning across the teenagers in the stockade, taking in their mixed relief and envy.

And then District One is gone, and the crowd on Panem's screens are a different crowd, in a different District. The weather in Two is colder and wetter, the light less bright, but the excitement and tension in the air no less strong. The crowd waits impatiently through the mayor's scripted speech, then erupts as Kassian Trove, the Escort, steps up to the front of the stage with a dazzling smile that outshines even Flavia's. "Welcome, welcome one and all, to the 54th Reaping of District Two! Happy Hunger Games, ladies and gentlemen!" He lowers his voice a little, sounding truly sincere, and still smiling from ear to ear. District Two is probably the strongest District in Panem, and a hotly contested place for Escorts to be stationed. "You have no idea how proud it makes me to stand here with you, to have the honour – no, the _pleasure_ – of being your Escort for this year. The odds must be in my favour. May they be in yours, too, this Reaping."

He moves to the girl's Reaping ball, rolling up his sequined sleeve with a dramatic flourish before he dips his perfectly-manicured hand into the sea of names and digging around for a moment before he plucks out the folded paper.

"Oriana Corrin!"

Oriana looks up from her position among the fifteen-year-olds, excitement and fear mingling on her square face, and starts towards the stage with her short bob of blonde hair bouncing around her cheeks. She hasn't yet left the stockade, though, when a hand shoots up and a voice cries out "I volunteer!"

* * *

It was bound to happen sooner or later. Brooke has been looking for her opportunity for years, the chance to get out, to get away, to be something great. She can prove herself, make her mother proud. Most of all, she can leave Two behind. Winning won't be _easy_ – she isn't naive enough to think that – but she knows it's worth it, not only to bring honour to her District, keep up the strong victory tradition of Two, but also because nobody touches a Victor. Being victorious puts you above other people, puts you in a position of power.

He won't dare touch her if she wins.

Her ribs twinge slightly under her sequined black top, where the bruising mars her ivory-pale skin, as she fills her lungs to shout, her hand rising into the air to draw attention to herself. She has to get in first – in a District like Two, it's easy to miss your chance to volunteer. So she shouts loud and as quickly as she can, and when she stalks up onto the stage, it's with relief as much as smugness.

The ache in her ribs doesn't show from the outside. She's well-used to hiding pain, and she holds herself tall, although it stretches her sore side. Her chin is lifted, her dark brown ponytail swishing from side to side as she steps up to the podium, smiling a thin, humourless smile.

"What's your name?" Kassian prompts, as her cold eyes take in his fussy, sequined suit, his curly orange hair, his rings and bracelets. She judges him in a split second: _Shallow. Stupid. Weak, primping idiot. But what do you expect from the Capitol?_

"Brooke Tideson," is all she says, though, with a little nod, and shows her teeth in a slightly wider, more unnerving smile. It might not look it, but it's a genuine smile. She's finally here, honoured with the weight of her District's name, ready to prove herself, ready for all her training to come to a head. She's proud, she's relieved, and she's, yes, more than a little smug.

She's finally breaking free.

* * *

Kassian leads the applause as Brooke takes her place on the stage, and he lets it run its course for a moment before, conscious of the need to stay roughly on schedule, he stops clapping, and without waiting for the crowd's applause to fade away as well, digs deep into the ball of boys' names.

The thunderous, energetic applause drops off almost immediately as he pulls out a name, and the crowd hold their collective breath, poised to hear whose name will be read.

"Junius Clem—" Kassian begins, but he isn't allowed to finish. A tall, muscular boy is already shoving his way forwards through the other seventeen-year-olds, shouting: "No! Me! I volunteer! _I volunteer_!"

* * *

It isn't how it's supposed to be done. You're supposed to wait until the Reaped tribute is introduced, given a chance to accept their role, until the cameras have at least taken in who it might have been. But Avius already missed out once, last year, to an older boy who died in the first four days of the Games. He's not going to miss his chance again, and he'll do better than last year's tribute, he knows it. That tribute was soft, let himself care about his alliance, let his guard down so he was taken completely by surprise when he got a knife in the back. Avius isn't like that. Avius is a winner, and he knows it. He's tough, hard, not just willing to kill but able to take pleasure in it; the best tribute Two could ask for.

There's a moment, after he shouts, when he's afraid that he's missed it, that he'll be ignored because he called out too soon. That scares him far more than the prospect of the Games ever could, and for a moment, he almost regrets volunteering so soon. But then Kassian signals assent, just a little nod as he calls Avius up on stage, and Avius doesn't hesitate for even a split second.

He runs, not even caring whether it makes him seem over-eager. He _is_ over-eager, more excited than he's ever been in his life, and he lopes up onto the podium and shakes Kassian's hand, grinning from ear to ear. Even his piercing blue eyes, usually sharp and steady, glitter with excitement.

"I'm Avius Bronze," he says, before he's even asked, and flashes a smile to the camera nearest the stage. It's genuine, but all the creepier for it, a sharp white gash in his pointed features which looks more manic than it does happy. The scar above his eye picks up his right eyebrow slightly, making him look even harsher. He looks unstable, dangerous, the kind of person who graduated from pulling wings off flies a long time ago.

It's perfect. He's perfect for this. He knows it, and the District, who've watched him bully and torture his way through the last seventeen years, know it too. Few of them like him, but all of them applaud him; it washes over him like water, leaving him untouched, because he's not in this for the acclaim. He's in this for the fun.

* * *

Kassian takes his seat, and the mayor steps forwards to read the Treaty of Treason. He's a dignified man, with a greying beard and a deep, rolling voice, and his reading of the Treaty has a pleasing resonance to it. Unlike in District One, though, the crowd's attention isn't even partially on him; they're watching their tributes, two more fine examples of the soldiers Two is so proficient in producing.

They look far less mismatched than the two tributes from One. Like Giada and Platinum, there's a significant height difference, but besides that they're remarkably similar. Both hold themself taut and tall, with pride in their faces. Both are fit, with strong, muscular arms and an ease of movement which comes from long training. Most pervasively, though, although they're actually very dissimilar – he blonde, thin-faced and lithe, she dark-haired, rounder-faced, prettier – they look very much alike. It's the eyes. Their eyes are almost the same; cold blue gimlets which seem almost inhumanly unsympathetic.

Those eyes meet as the mayor finishes his reading and gestures for them to shake hands. The handshake takes longer than most, and there seems to be a kind of contest going on between them, both tributes squeezing the other's hand tightly enough that it has to hurt, gauging the other's reaction.

It's a test. Everything here is a test. _Rule one: be aware of your surroundings_.

The anthem strikes up as they finally let each other's hands go, each left with crescent-shaped marks from the other's nails, and face forwards. Again, the cameras zoom, taking them in, and again, the scene then shifts to the crowd, the disappointed ones and the excited ones and the rather angry-looking Junius Clemens still in the stockade.

For District Two, the Games have begun. And Panem is watching.


	4. Reapings 3 & 4: The Devil & The Deep

**A/N:** Sorry this chapter took a long time. I was aiming for a weekly schedule, but as it says on my profile, I'm not very reliable. :p Mostly this A/N is just a reminder that, if you submitted a tribute without specifying their Reaping outfit (which I know is my fault for not putting it on the form) and you have a preference for what kind of thing they'd be wearing, please PM me and let me know so I can incorporate it! Otherwise, I'll just make something up, and that's fine too.  
Enjoy the chapter!

* * *

**2 - Between The Devil & The Deep Blue Sea**

In Three, the tall factories rise up to the sky, blotting out the sky in great, jagged shadows. The square where the Reapings are held, though, is one of the most open spaces, a wide concrete space with the children stockaded almost dead centre. The overall impression is close and claustrophobic, but also has an odd kind of majesty to it; Three's electronics factories may be nothing like as elegant and stylish as the buildings of the Capitol, but it was a rich District once, and there is a faded kind of splendour to the place.

It is the wrong kind of splendour, though, for Letitia Sugarsnap, the Representative for the District. She looks awkwardly misplaced with her glittering green suit and surgically implanted emeralds above her eyes, too small and too fussy for the faded grandeur of the city. When she speaks, her clipped Capitol accent sounds out of place, too.

"Happy Hunger Games!" she trills, apparently oblivious to her own dissonance with the place. "Without further ado, let's find out who our tributes are! Ladies first!" And she moves to the girls' ball in quick, tiny steps, her ankles all but bound together by her slimline green skirt, her high heels clicking on the stage. One green-gloved hand dips into the ball, swirling the names inside with long, elegant fingers, and then she plucks her chosen paper out with alarming suddenness. Her smile never wavers as she unfolds the slip of paper, holding it up between her long green fingernails, and clears her throat.

"Singe Lightfoot!"

* * *

Singe is standing among the other fifteen-year-olds, head down and wavy black hair shading her face, calculating the odds that her sister's name will be drawn. When it's her name that rings out across the square, though, she freezes, her heart plummeting into the pit of her stomach. The odds of her name being drawn were _tiny_ – three years, no tesserae, made three slips of paper in all those thousands. She calculated the chances on the way to the Reaping, and considered it negligible - but Singe has a good enough grasp of probability to know that improbability doesn't mean impossibility. She should have been prepared. But she isn't, and now she stands, with the cameras on her and the Peacekeepers drawing in to escort her to the stage, shocked and horrified.

Shocked, horrified, and oddly, perversely pleased.

She shouldn't be pleased. Logically, she knows that. The odds are stacked against her, and the stakes are higher than anything she's ever done. She's small, physically weak, and from a deprived District; even without taking that into account, 23-1 isn't good odds by anyone's standards. But her name being called means the Capitol, and the Arena. Her name being called means that she finally has a chance to get up close and personal with the Games that have been her obsession for years.

As she swallows and lets herself be led up to the stage, she tries to focus on that little pocket of excitement - tries not to think that this isn't quite how she'd hoped to get involved in the Games, or that she could very well die before she gets to see most of the technological wonders of the Arena, or even that the Arena might not seem so wonderful from inside.

She _tries_, but she doesn't succeed. At the best of times, she hates attention, and now, with an uncomfortable range of emotions roiling and tossing in her mind, and not only the entire District but the entire _country_ watching her, and her whole life hanging on the brink of a game where the odds are decidedly _not_ in her favour... now, she feels sick to her stomach, and the world is swimming. It's all she can do to stay upright and walk straight, and she doesn't shake Letitia's hand when she reaches the stage. Stepping back, she closes her eyes and focuses on breathing.

Holograms. Mutts. Camera angles and hovercraft. The sheer complexity of the Games, the technical know-how that goes into every moment that's aired. She breathes in through her nose and out through her mouth, and tries to recall that momentary excitement at all the wonderful, wonderful technology that's going to kill her.

* * *

As the petite tribute steps to the back of the stage, cameras tracking her for a moment, Letitia springs back into action, her unnaturally blue eyes shining as she clatters to the other Reaping ball. Again, her hand dips into the sea of names, and digs for a moment before surfacing with another little scrap of paper clutched between sparkling fingernails.

"And our second tribute, joining Singe in the Arena this year, is..."

There's no drumroll, but the intense look on Letitia's face suggests she views that as an oversight. She opens the paper with a flourish. "Oliver Mykal!"

* * *

He's ready. He doesn't want to go, but he's ready. Every year since his first Reaping, he's made a plan in his mind, just in case, and now – as Letitia's shrill voice calls out his name, drilling through his head – he's almost smug. He came prepared, after all. Looking at his District partner, that makes one of them.

Taking a deep breath, and steadying his expression as the cameras train on him, he walks out to join Letitia and Singe onstage. His expression stays steady, his heavy combat boots surprisingly soft on the concrete. He's grateful for his fedora, which shades his face and obscures his eyes; he knows that his eyes are hard, and until he can soften them, he'll have difficulty getting across what he has to.

_Be weak. Be small. Be afraid_. He repeats the mantra in his head, and slumps his shoulders slightly, drawing himself in so that he looks even smaller than he is as he mounts the stage. Turning to the audience and the cameras, he tries to make his eyes wide and frightened. He's a good liar, but not good enough to disguise the hardness of his angular face, or the coldness of his blue eyes; still, his best chance is to look unthreatening, and he tries his best. It's harder, admittedly, for the fact that his District partner is also small – four foot ten, the same size as him – and skinny, like him, and – unlike him – looks genuinely scared.

Silk _is_ scared, but the predominant emotion in him, just at that moment, is a kind of bitter relief. If he is tribute, this is his chance. He can show them all, take revenge on the Capitol... most of all, he can take something home. In Victor's Village, life could be easy again. The twins could grow up knowing what it was like not to struggle; his father could soften a little, knowing that something good had come out of it all. If Silk does well, everything could change for them. If he survives, so will his family. And so will his mother's memory.

So for all that he tries to appear scared, he doesn't _feel_ scared. He's relieved. This is a _chance_.

"It's, uh..." He intentionally hesitates, trying to appear shy, as he looks up at Letitia. "My name's Silk. I want to be called Silk."

"Silk?" It's a little sarcastic, an unpleasant edge under her light, cheerful voice, but her smile doesn't waver for a second. "Well, I suppose there's no reason why not... Silk Mykal, ladies and gentlemen!"

* * *

They stand together, side-by-side but barely looking at each other, as the Mayor, a tall grey-haired woman, steps up to begin reading the Treaty. The cameras fix on her for a moment, then shift their focus to the tributes. The two teenagers have a lot in common; both fifteen, both diminuitive, both scrawny and weak-looking; their superficial similarities only throw their differences into sharper relief. He is harder-faced than she is, no matter how he tries to hide it, with sharp blue eyes in contrast to her round green ones. She is pale and dark-haired where his deep tan and red hair give him a sepia look. Both look frightened, but both, too, hold themselves steady in the face of Panem's scrutiny.

When they shake hands, it's brief, neither apparently wanting to maintain contact for long. As the anthem strikes up, and the cameras move on to view the crowd, Silk and Singe step back from each other, with something that's not quite dislike but comes very close to it.

And the cameras shut down, and the Reapings roll on, on to Four, where the sun glitters on the water and the urban darkness of Three seems a million miles away. Here, the Mayor's history of Panem is delivered in brief, clipped sentences, his dark green eyes roving over the crowd, and when Claretta Kingfisher takes the stage with a professional smile, he nods to her briskly as he takes his seat again.

"It's an honour and a pleasure to be here today," she begins, her hand already delving into the first Reaping ball. "I don't know about you, but I'm always excited when the Games roll around, and doubly excited because I get to be a part of them, this year as for the last ten years. I'm sure these Games will be every bit as exciting and wonderful as they always are, with strong contenders from Four and maybe even a Victor to come home to you! So, without further ado, let's welcome our first Tribute this year... Lily Star!"

And, as the name echoes out over the water, silence rolls across the crowd like a wave.

* * *

She should have known. Of course it would be one of them. First Selene, then Sol, and now, for the third year in a row, another Star has been Reaped. If she hadn't believed the rumours before, this would still have forced her to accept it; this isn't coincidence. She doesn't know what her family did to earn this punishment, but it can't be denied, and she's afraid the Capitol won't stop until they're all dead.

All that flashes through Storm's mind in the split second after she hears Lily's name. But she doesn't hesitate, not even for a second; she's the eldest Star girl left, and it's her responsibility to save her sister if nobody else will – just like Selene saved her.

"I volunteer!" Her voice cracks a little, but it's loud and clear, all the louder over the blanket of silence that's fallen over the crowd. Ignoring the horrorstricken looks Claire and Sam are giving her from their own parts of the stockade, she tosses her dark brown hair back over her shoulder, sets her jaw defiantly, and pushes forwards through the other teenagers, lips drawn into a thin line. They won't take this away from her. Not Lily, not her family, and certainly not her pride.

Claretta smiles, sparkling red lips pulling back from her teeth. To Storm, it looks like a shark's smile, cold and hateful, without any human warmth behind it; it sends chills down her spine. "A volunteer!" she greets Storm, clapping her hands together and reaching out to shake Storm's hand. "And so brave, too! What's your name?"

"Storm Star." It takes all she has to keep her voice steady and her head high, showing no weakness and no fear.

"Oh, I remember!" Claretta smiles that shark's smile again, her long, painted fingernails sharp-edged against Storm's hand. "You were Reaped a couple of years ago, weren't you? And your sister volunteered for you, what was her name?"

"Selene." She grinds it out between her gritted teeth, resenting the reminder. If Claretta is bothered by her obvious hostility, though, she doesn't show it.

"Ah, yes. Selene. She did rather well, didn't she? Well, Storm, let's hope you can do just as well as she did! Storm Star, ladies and gentlemen – our newest tribute!"

Storm keeps her eyes forwards as she steps to the back of the stage, not letting it touch her, trying not to think of what it will do to her family if she dies too, or who will volunteer for Lily or Dawn if they're Reaped next year, or anything like that. Lily's safe, for now, and the Capitol still have their plans satisfied. She can't do more than that.

* * *

The applause for Storm is dutiful rather than enthusiastic, but it's there; Four isn't rebellious enough to risk not applauding. Claretta greets the applause with another white-toothed smile, then gestures for silence as she steps up to the boys' Reaping ball and delves her hand in. For a moment, she lets the quiet stretch out, then clears her throat delicately and unfolds the paper.

"James Astley!"

* * *

For a moment, he freezes, his green eyes flicking to and fro with something like fear, as if he might be mistaken. Maybe he misheard? It can't _actually_ be him. His name's hardly in the ball at all, it can't possibly be him who has to go to the Capitol to fight.

The Capitol... where none of the women seem to be old or ugly, and the eyes of Panem will be on him, and he'll be in close confines with twelve girls doing nothing but work up a sweat.

James laughs suddenly, loudly, and as everyone turns their heads to look at him, he adjusts the open collar of his shirt to show him off to best effect, flashes his teeth in an attractive half-smile, and heads for the stage. Oh, sure, it's dangerous. But danger is sexy, everyone knows that, and sexy is James Astley's middle name. He'll be fine. He might hate the training, but he's _done_ the training, and there's no doubt he'll get the sponsors. No big deal. So he swaggers confidently onto the stage, pausing only to wave for the cameras and give the nearest camerawoman a wink as he hops up next to Claretta.

"Wow," he tells her, flashing her a thousand-watt smile as he looks her up and down. "You're even cuter close up. And I get to spend how long sharing an apartment with you? Can't wait. You and me, babe, we're the lucky ones." Reaching up to sweep his blonde hair into just the right position, he winks at her, tapping his hand over his heart, and steps back with every appearance of reluctance to join Storm further back. As Claretta gives way to the Mayor again, and he loses interest in the goings-on at the front of the stage, he checks his District partner out from the corner of his eye. She's all right, he supposes, but a bit young for him. He's got high standards, and they don't include getting it on with fourteen-year-olds. Her big sister, if he remembers rightly, was a looker, but of course she's dead now, and Storm's just not as hot, honestly. He can do better.

But Storm's just the tip of the iceberg. The Capitol's full of hot girls, and he'll be famous there, a celebrity. Everyone will know his name. Every woman in Panem is going to want him. And if he wins, it'll only get better.

_Yeah. This isn't so bad._

* * *

The Mayor finishes the Treaty, and gestures for the tributes to shake hands, which they do with varying degrees of enthusiasm – James smiles warmly, flirtatiously, while Storm looks him up and down with clear distaste. They do make eye contact, unlike the tributes from Three, and hold it for a second after their hands drop back to their sides, then turn forwards to face the cameras as the anthem strikes up.

Both teenagers are tall and good-looking - she leggy and slender, he strong and muscular – but Storm fades in comparison to James, largely because she doesn't appear to hold her looks in particularly high regard, while James' touseled hair looks suspiciously perfect and his rolled-up sleeves look rather like they might have been rolled up purely to show off the muscle on his arms. He's not quite striking a pose, but he looks like he might at a second's notice.

It seems to be working. The cameras catch on him, holding, while the anthem plays. He extrudes confidence, if not straight-up vanity, and it's magnetic to a Capitol audience. Between James' sheer confidence, and the more understated drama of the third Star tribute in three years, District Four has certainly left its mark on the audience. But the show's not over yet.


	5. Reapings 5 & 6: Lay Me Low

**A/N:** Well, we're at the halfway mark on Reapings! I hope you enjoy them so far. Also, random question: would any of you be interested if I had a go at another fic (well, for a given value of 'fic') that was like an instruction manual for making tributes? I know it's been done, but I was thinking about it anyway. So, yeah. That's a thing.  
Thanks for reading!

* * *

**3 - Lay Me Low**

Even by comparison with Three, District Five looks grimy and dark. Coming as it does directly after the shining shores of Four, the contrast is even starker. The vast power plants dominate the sky, which is smoggy and dark even at high noon; on the ground, the streets are wide and open, but blackened by pollution.

Unlike Three, though, Five has a Representative who understands how to make himself look like he fits. Auralio Goldfeather is a master of effect, and the effect he gives off is that the darkness and gloominess of the background is designed purely to show him off more. His gold hair is coiffed, his dark skin glittering with some kind of silver dust which catches what little light there is, his red-gold suit making him shine in the dim, grey light.

He's older than most of the Representatives. It doesn't show in his looks, which have been carefully fixed until he could be anywhere between fifteen and fifty, but it shows in his voice; under the trilling accent, it is deeper and more resonant than the others'. He smiles constantly as he talks, enthusing about how glad and how honoured he is to be here for yet another Reaping, in this beautiful District. He even manages to say that without a hint of irony. Then, at last, he steps up to the Reaping balls. He doesn't dig around in the ball of names, like most Representatives do; instead, he swirls his fingertips lightly over the surface of the names, his fingernails flashing gold in the lights set up around the stage, and grabs a name between thumb and forefinger like a bird catching a fly.

There's a moment of quiet. His smile has faded, his bronze-coloured eyes scanning the audience slowly. There's a faint rustle as he unfolds the paper, and then raises his voice, calling out the name: "Robyn Buzz!"

* * *

She's paying attention. She's _always_ paying attention. Even so, it takes her a long time to realise that the name he called was her own. Her body realises before her mind catches up, and her chest constricts, her eyes widening slightly. For a moment, on the edge of panic, she begins to hyperventilate, then takes a hold of herself and gives herself a good, hard, metaphorical shake. The cameras are on her. She can't panic. Nor, for once in her life, can she hide.

_What do I do?_ Figuring out other people is easy, but figuring out what _she_ should do... that's much harder. She breathes in through her nose, out through her mouth, a rabbit in headlights. _All right. Wrong approach. What do they _want_ me to do?_

_Deep breaths, keep steady. One foot after the other. Imagine you're just walking down the corridor in school. No, not like in school. You need your head up. UP. Yes, that's better, maybe add in a little smirk? There. That's it for now._

One foot after the other, head held high, breathing deeply, she walks slowly up to the stage. Her eyes don't flick to either side; she looks straight ahead, to the stage and Auralio. If she turns her eyes, if she reminds herself that the crowd and the cameras and the Capitol are watching, it'll all break down, she knows it will. She can't hide here. There's no crowd to melt into on the stage, no shadowy corners to obscure her. Just Auralio, shining like the sun, and the cameras.

Swallowing painfully hard, Robyn reaches up to push her reddish hair back behind her ear. It's a struggle to keep that slight smirk in place, when all she really wants is to break and run, but she manages it. She even manages to shake Auralio's hand, although the warmth and solidity of his bony fingers makes all this that little bit more real, that little bit more terrifying.

It isn't even the dying that scares her too much. It's that this is only the beginning. This – standing here in the middle of the town square, with everybody in District Five and everybody in the Capitol focused on her, with the cameras recording for all the other Districts to watch tonight – this isn't the worst it will get. This is only the beginning, and even if she wins, it won't end until she's dead. Privacy, secrecy, being the Chameleon... it all ends here.

Up here, in the harshly artificial light and under the unflinching glare of the cameras, there's nowhere to hide.

* * *

Even as she steps away, Auralio is already moving to dip his hand into the boys' names, his dazzling smile back. He moves with balletic grace, no hesitations or doubt. Again, his fingers barely skim the papers before he makes his choice.

Again, that brief silence. Again, the faint rustle of paper.

"Jayden Taevyn!"

And Robyn, for the moment, is forgotten.

* * *

All at the same time, the eyes of Five turn on him. He's hardly even aware of their stare; his brain, usually so quick and ready, has ground to a halt. He stands there, small and fragile - a little boy with wide green eyes and a horrorstruck expression, his breathing shallow and quick – and nothing comes to mind. No aphorisms, no pithy quotes, no facts and figures, only the spreading silence.

He moves slowly, the world deadened around him as if he's underwater. There's a roaring in his ears and an unfocused blankness to his eyes; he doesn't hear his own footsteps or the sounds of the people around him. And still, there's nothing. No words, no thoughts, no histories to call on. Vaguely, distantly, he's aware of mounting the stage on shaky legs that don't quite feel like they belong to him. The world has turned into static, white noise; his mind is empty.

At the back of the stage, his father makes a little sound, a protesting noise that's poorly hidden and doesn't go unnoticed, and half-rises before Simeon touches his arm and persuades him to sit back down. Jayden turns his head to look, and his lip trembles slightly. He has to be steadied by Auralio, who catches him in such a way as to make it look like an enthusiastic handshake, and in that moment, everything crashes back into place.

He stumbles, although he's standing in place, and almost falls as reality thunders in like a wave. His legs will no longer hold him, and even from the crowd, his trembling is visible. He's going to die. He's going to die. There's no question in his mind; he's going to die.

Somehow, he manages to keep his footing after Auralio lets go of his hand. Even more miraculously, he manages not to cry, staggering back a couple of steps to join Robyn at the back of the stage. Somewhere, he finds the strength to keep standing, although he's clearly terrified, paler than ever, still apparently caught in a moment of shock. As the unsteady, doubtful applause fills the square, the words finally come to his mind, all in a jumble.

_...Theirs not to make reply he stoppeth one of three theirs not to reason why sometimes you didn't want to know the end lay me low into the valley of death there is nothing left..._

_I'm going to die._

* * *

The mayor takes several long minutes to recover. Nobody in the District can blame him; even Auralio looks somewhat sympathetic. But the time ticks on, and at last, Mayor Taevyn staggers to the front of the stage, eyes on Jayden. He has to clear his throat several times before he can begin the Treaty, and his usually steady voice is strangled, cracked, reedier than usual. The cameras focus in on his face; his green eyes glittering with unshed tears, the slight tremble of his lips as he speaks, the bobbing of his Adam's apple. He's been Mayor long enough that he must know the Treaty of Treason upside-down and inside-out, but he stumbles slightly over the words, eyes still flicking every now and then to his son.

At last, he manages to finish, stepping back. His tongue darts out for a moment, wetting his lips, before he signals for the two children to shake hands. He looks almost as frightened as his son as they clasp hands; of the three at centre stage, Robyn is the only one who seems able to keep up the illusion of strength.

The anthem strikes up, and the Mayor withdraws, leaving the camera to focus on the tributes. Both are young – at fourteen, Robyn is still a year Jayden's senior – and small for their age, and if Jayden is pale, he looks positively tan next to her. Both are skinny and frail-looking. Her eyes flicker over the people on the stage – Simeon, Graham, Mayor Taevyn, Auralio, and Jayden – while his are closed tight, and he looks like he might be seconds from a full-blown panic attack. However Five does, it's clear that they don't have the advantage of strength.

As before, the cameras pan away, taking in the crowd and the city – and, peripherally, the Mayor, who's having to be led offstage – before the scene changes, the greys and blacks of Five blending seamlessly into the greys and browns of Six, where a different Mayor stands on the stage and speaks of the history of Panem. He has no children. No doubt, when he watches the recaps tonight, he'll be glad of that.

He speaks at length, and finally gives way to the Representative. Livvie Samite is small and delicate, with the sharp bones of her face picked out by dramatic makeup, and she moves so quickly and lightly that her high heels barely seem to touch the ground. She talks with the same quick, light air, trilling more even than most Capitol citizens as she enthuses about how exciting it is, how _transported_ she is with joy (pause for laughter, like every year) to be in Six for this Reaping. And then, with a sing-song "May the odds be ever in your favour!" she darts to the girls' ball, and digs her small hand deep into the papers before pulling a name out. No hesitation here, no building of tension, no fussy throat-clearing; she simply shakes the paper open and smiles out at the crowd.

"Wren Cronin!"

* * *

She doesn't think about it immediately. People are looking, people are expecting something of her, so she does what she always does; she makes out like that was her plan all along. She gangles her way out from among the sixteen-year-old girls, and she's halfway out of the stockade before she starts to actually think about it. The Games. She's going to the Games. She's going to die a horrible, painful death, live for everyone's entertainment.

_No!_

Her mind rebels, her steps slowing until, halfway to the stage, she stumbles to a stop. _No, no, no! This isn't happening. This can't be happening. I won't LET this be happening. I'm not doing this. I'm not, I'm not, I'm not, and I'm going to wake up any minute and the _real_ Reaping will happen and it won't be me, it CAN'T be me..._

_I can't be going to die._

She doesn't seem to realise that she's stopped dead. She just stands there, stock still, muddy brown eyes wide and startled, like a fawn that sees the hunter coming. The Peacekeepers share a glance, then step forwards to try and chivvy her on, but she just stays there, frozen in place, barely blinking. With the frizz of brown hair, the gangly build, and the solidly unmoving position, she looks rather as if somebody's decided, out of nowhere, to plant a scarecrow in the middle of the town square.

At last, when she still refuses to move – or maybe 'refuses' is the wrong word, since she seems incapable rather than unwilling – the Peacekeepers turn to extreme measures. Two of them step forwards, a man and a woman, and hook their arms under her bony elbows. The toes of her smart shoes scuff on the ground, running long unbroken trails as she's carried bodily up onto the stage.

Still, she doesn't move. She doesn't move when they let go of her, stepping back to the edge of the stage; she doesn't move when a rather disconcerted Livvie tries to draw her out with bright, enthusiastic chatter; she doesn't even move when Livvie tries to persuade her to step back out of the way. It's like the cogs of her brain have ground to a halt, stopped by the attempt to reconcile with a reality that's impossible for her to accept.

_This isn't happening. I'm not going to die_.

* * *

Livvie clears her throat, her smile faltering for a fraction of a second as she steps around the motionless Wren to get to the boys' ball. "Well," she says, with transparently fake cheer, "isn't this _exciting_? And now, our male tribute... a big strong boy to join our, um, our _interesting_ girl! Don't be shy, don't be shy, I'm sure you're all just _breathless_ to find out who it is. And that big, strong boy is... Joshua Freeman!"

* * *

It's really not Livvie's year. It's not her fault, of course, but it can't really help that her 'big strong boy' is the Joker. He stands at the back of the stockade, twelve years old, gangly and bony, and about as far from big and strong as they come.

There's fear, somewhere. A level, above that, of resignation. And, above that, a more familiar feeling; the bubbling, light amusement with which Joshua faced everything in his life. It's not his fault, he just finds it _funny_ – funny that he's a 'big, strong boy', funny that the girl onstage still hasn't unfrozen herself, funny that he'd have his name drawn five minutes after joking about having his name drawn. He snorts, a smile plucking at the corner of his mouth, and marches up onto the stage, arms swinging loosely at his sides until he's up on stage beside her, when he flexes his almost non-existent biceps.

"Big, strong boy, at your service," he remarks sarcastically. Nobody laughs. There's a feeling in the air, like one giant frown as people try to work out whether he's serious. It doesn't bother him, of course; he's used to that response. He looks at Wren, still standing there like a statue. There has to be a joke in that, he thinks, and opens his mouth to crack one, but Livvie's clearly had enough. She cuts in before he can speak, her lipsticked smile wavering more than a little now. "Joshua Freeman, ladies and gentlemen!"

It isn't often he actually gets applause. _Maybe_, he thinks, soaking it up even though he knows they have to applaud whoever it is, _maybe there's some good stuff in this_.

* * *

They stand side-by-side as the Mayor reads the Treaty. Wren looks even taller and lankier next to Joshua, although he's gangly himself; she's still frozen, horrorstruck and unresponsive, and it has to be admitted that it's kind of funny. Joshua certainly seems to think so; he keeps glancing sidelong at her and dissolving, for a moment, into silent laughter before he manages to regain his composure. At least he can see the funny side.

Several people have to suppress a nervous laugh, too, when Wren has to be physically moved before she'll limply shake Joshua's hand. It's funny. Of course it's funny.

That is, it's funny if you don't think about it too hard.


	6. Reapings 7 & 8: The Roll Call

**A/N:** Sorry for the delay! It turned out I was busier than I'd expected, so I didn't get this finished as soon as I'd hoped. Still, here it is, and hopefully it meets your expectations. :p

* * *

**4 - When They Took The Roll Call**

The stage in District Seven is set up in a large clearing in the woods; the light that filters down from the bright sky is mottled with shifting shadows from the trees. Dressed in bright scarlet, Emalia Silverstone stands out like a cardinal among the greens and browns of the leafy District.

Her voice is loud and clear, almost painfully shrill, as she expounds on how glad she is to be here – just like the rest – and how grateful she is to the Mayor for her _wonderful_ speech on the history of Panem – just like the rest – and how utterly enraptured and excited she is by the Reapings this year. Just like the rest. Unlike the rest, though, she doesn't seem to be making an enormous effort to hide how un-excited she actually is; her voice is expressive, her movements are bright and cheerful, but she looks unbelievably bored. Or maybe that's just because her eyelids are made heavy by the insanely long eyelashes affixed to them.

Her long-nailed fingers dig in the girls' Reaping ball as she speaks, and at last, she smiles brightly and pulls out a scrap of paper.

"Silvia Stone!"

* * *

She tenses, worn-down nails digging into the palms of her hands as she clenches, then unclenches, her thick fists. Here, now, it seems suddenly too scary to go through with. But she's watched enough Reapings and enough Games to know what she has to do, and she doesn't have a choice.

"I volunteer," she croaks out, and then, when it comes out strangled and quiet, raises her voice and shouts out again – loud this time, a roar - "I volunteer!"

Heads turn. She isn't hard to see; tall and solidly-built, she's a head above most of the other seventeen-year-old girls, and already pushing her way forwards towards the stage. Silvia, a frail-looking fourteen-year-old, drops back among her peers with obvious relief, but Yariminda isn't looking. Instead, she stares straight ahead as she climbs the steps onto the unvarnished wood of the stage, her head held high and her mouth drawn into a hard line.

Somewhere out in the crowd, her siblings will be horrified. But she can't let that faze her. She's doing this for them, after all; the Games will save them, because that's all the Games are good for. Fame, wealth, privilege... the Games will bring them all of that if she wins, and if she loses, then at least there's one fewer mouth to feed. Besides, even before the Games, the Capitol will provide for her, and the thought of three square meals a day might almost be incentive enough on its own.

Emalia is asking her name. Yariminda meets her eyes levelly, unsmiling. "Yariminda Birchwood," she replies, and shakes Emalia's hand firmly, ignoring the dig of overlong nails into her skin. Aware of the glare of the cameras, and of the importance of keeping up a good impression, she keeps her head high and her hands loose by her sides as she steps to the back of the stage. The easiest part is keeping a straight face. There's nothing to cry about, after all, and she has no temptation to smile.

* * *

Emalia's smile looks much more genuine now. The excitement of having a volunteer right at the start seems to have cured her of her boredom, and she all but skips up to the boy's Reaping ball, digging her hand in deep.

"Well, isn't this exciting?" she exclaims, her teeth flashing brightly as her ridiculous eyelashes make another long sweep; down, up, like a bird's wing. "And our second tribute, everybody, let's hear it for..." There's a moment where she struggles slightly to unfold the paper, inch-long nails clicking together oddly, before she reads the name. "Alexander Pine!"

* * *

The silence is audible. After Yariminda's dramatic entrance, everyone – including Emalia, clearly – is half-expecting another volunteer. Teddy certainly is, although that's more desperate hope than real expectation. He doesn't want to go. Not to the Games, not _him_, certainly not now. Crazily, the thought that comes into his head is _All that rehearsal's been a waste. I'll never get to be in the musical now_.

Nobody seems to be making a move, least of all him. It's hard to wrap his head around. In some ways, he guesses it could be worse... after all, what are the Games if not a giant stage where you have to act all the time? And he can act. He knows he can. After all, that's what he does with his life...

Mac gives him a little shove, for once not smiling, and Teddy realises that he's been standing there way too long already, that the Peacekeepers are coming into the stockade to pull him up onto the stage, and that nobody is going to volunteer for him. Hot on the heels of that realisation comes a resolution: _all right, there's a stage... stages are easy. Stages are natural. You know what to do, now do it_.

He lifts his head up, puts on a smile, and goes out to meet the Peacekeepers, thin arms swinging loosely by his sides as if this were the most normal thing in the world to him. He makes it look easy, makes it look casual, as if nothing about this situation can touch him. Courage is something he's acted a million times before, and he pulls it over himself like a cloak, hopping up onto the stage with a smile at Emalia, and another to Yariminda, whose neutrality has for some reason dropped in favour of a vicious glare in his direction. At the back of his mind, that worries him, but the Teddy who is brave, the Teddy who the cameras see, is completely unfussed. He shakes Emalia's hand, trying to add a certain firmness to the motion, and steps back to join Yariminda.

He's uncomfortably aware of how she towers over him, and of the fact that he's going to his death. But he's on a stage, and the crowd is watching and applauding, and the cameras are on him, and that makes it all too easy to play the part.

* * *

The Mayor steps up to take Emalia's place, and as she reads the Treaty, Yariminda continues to glare at Alexander, her green eyes dark and hard as glass. To the undoubted interest of many in the Capitol, he seems to remain completely untroubled by it.

They're an oddly-matched pair of tributes, and it shows all the more when the Mayor finishes her reading and the two shake hands. Yariminda towers head and shoulders over Alexander, and has to reach down to take his hand. Everything about her is _big_ – big frizz of hair; big, broad shoulders and muscular arms; big nose; big mouth; big hands that swamp Alexander's as she tightens her hand on his, so tightly that he's obviously struggling not to wince. By contrast, he looks small and weedy; he's sixteen, only a year younger than her, but small for his age, with scraggly black hair and a round, childlike face. He disappears beside her, but his courage has been noted, and that counts for something.

Again, the anthem strikes up, and again, the cameras move on – taking in, as they pass, Emalia's returning expression of boredom, Yariminda's glare, Alexander's cocky smile, and the relieved expressions of the children whose names have yet to be called – and turn away from the leafy openness of Seven, to the claustrophobic, urban grey of Eight, where the Mayor stands up to speak. He speaks fast, unceasingly, and so it isn't long before the Representative, Netta Levy, steps up to take his place. She's tall and willowy, and after the rushed speechifying of the Mayor, she seems remarkably steady. She speaks, more briefly than the others, about how glad she is to be there, and then falls silent as her hand dips deliberately into the first ball of names, pulling out the first Tribute of District Eight:

"Lacey Fuller!"

* * *

She swears. Luckily, she manages to bite back the _actual_ swearing, but in her head, she swears the sky blue. _Me? Why _me_?_ Her name can't be in there more than ten or fifteen times – she's taken out tesserae, but not _that_ many. It doesn't seem fair. No, scratch that, it doesn't seem _possible_. Being Reaped, going to the Games... those are things that happen to someone else.

But they're happening to her. They're happening to her, and she can see herself on the vast screens above the stage, caught in a moment of shock, brown eyes bigger than ever and mouth hanging slightly open, and she has to fix that, has to make herself look strong, for her family if not for the Capitol. She has to make herself confident, and fast, before that first impression is what sinks in across the whole of Panem, and especially in Lyle's eyes. Lyle's watching back home, in bed like always, excused from the Reaping because of his illness; she has to be strong for him. He can't know his big sister's terrified.

So Lacey closes her mouth, and closes her eyes for a moment, and balls her fists briefly at her sides as she starts up to the stage. She can't quite manage a smile – she's not a good enough actress for that – but a glance at the screens shows her that it's good enough; she looks calm now, confident, her curly auburn hair swinging against her cheeks as she strides up the steps, even managing a little swagger in her step.

After all, she tells herself, maybe it's not that bad. She might not be the best Tribute ever to be Reaped, but she's fast, she's brave, she's a quick learner... if she puts her mind to it, she could actually have a chance. _And think about it_, whispers the part of her brain she's almost afraid to acknowledge right now, because it's just too hopeful, _if you win, you'll be rich. You'll be rich and you'll be in touch with the Capitol. Who knows, maybe you could even find out what's wrong with Lyle._

As she shakes Netta's gloved hand and steps back, the applause roaring in her ears, she finally manages to summon a smile.

* * *

"Isn't this a marvellous start?" Netta encourages, joining in the applause. "Lacey, you should be very, very proud. May the odds be ever in your favour!" She smiles directly at the cameras, a hundred-watt smile which certainly seems to reach her electric-blue eyes, and dips her hand into the other ball, eyes still on the audience. She never seems to blink.

There's a certain gravitas to her unfolding of the paper, which has been lacking in the other Representatives. She holds it up in one hand, tucking back a strand of her long, dark hair with the other. "Aaron Duty!"

* * *

"Clark," he mutters, before it really starts to sink in. His name's Clark, not Aaron. Everyone knows that, but the stupid Capitol don't seem to realise that names can change, and the name on his slip is still the one he was born with. A moment later, he's wondering why on earth that seems like it would matter – why, when he's marching to his death, he even cares. It's a slow realisation, but a terrifying one; this is it. He has to go. And, given the luck his family's had with risky tasks before, he doesn't think his chances of coming back are all that high. Another one bites the dust.

It takes a moment's eye contact with Sam, his twin, to sink through his miasma of fear and remind him: _we've planned for this_. There is a plan. They worked it out years ago, and if he's going to be in with any sort of chance, he needs to stick to the plan. The strategy is simple, and he repeats it over and over again in his head as he walks up to the stage, like a mantra: _Be stupid. Be stupid, be weak, don't be a threat_. Being threatening is a good way to get yourself killed in the Games. Instead, he needs to be stupid, and be forgettable – it won't get him sponsors, but it might let him slip under the radar, and that could save his life.

He stumbles slightly as he gets up on the stage. Partly, that's because he's still thinking _be stupid be clumsy be weak don't be a threat_, but it's also because he's terrified. His whole life is flashing before his eyes, and the future part of it looks horribly short. Fourteen years old, small and weak and from an urban District, with no training and no survival skills... he has a strategy, though. That's important. That's a start.

"They call me Clark," he tells Netta, his voice quavering just a little bit.

She arches one elegant eyebrow, studded along its length with little silver balls, and shakes his hand. "Clark," she repeats, slowly, with a smile to the cameras. "Well, Clark, congratulations. Welcome to the Hunger Games!"

The applause is too loud, and sounds too distant. He keeps his blue-green eyes fixed on his feet, stepping back to join Lacey. _Be stupid. Be clumsy. Be weak. Be scared._

The last one, at least, is easy.

* * *

The Mayor steps up again, a tall, bony silhouette at the front of the stage, to read the Treaty. Again, he speaks rapidly, words tripping over each other as they hurry out of his mouth. The cameras focus on him, then shift to the tributes, both small for their age, but otherwise entirely different. Lacey seems to have extremely strong control of herself, while Clark shifts awkwardly from foot to foot, blinking up at the stage lights; when they come together to shake hands, she smiles at him, and he just looks back up at her, slightly slack-jawed.

At the back of the stage, Netta smiles, too, her gloved hands clasped together behind her back. The Mayor steps back, and the mentors rise as the anthem strikes up. The camera takes a long, slow sweep over the square, cramped and narrow between the towering factories, and then moves onwards, ever onwards, and the Capitol leave District Eight behind.


	7. Reapings 9 & 10: We Could Not Stand

**A/N:** Okay, so I am not back onto regular updates, because I am doing NaNoWriMo this year, so all my writing time is reserved for that. So this will probably be the last update until December - people who submitted to Districts 11 and 12, I am really sorry for making you wait this long, and I solemnly swear to get to it immediately after I'm done NaNo-ing. But I did feel bad about dropping the ball so much (seriously, over a month between updates, I am kicking myself!), so I got this chapter done before I start on NaNo. Hope it works for you! And happy Hallowe'en.

* * *

**5 - The Words We Could Not Stand To Hear**

Nine is wide and golden, the ears of ripening grain rustling softly in the afternoon breeze. After the dense urban air of Eight, its brightness and openness is all the more startling, and the cameras linger for a moment on the rolling amber hills, so foreign and rustically beautiful, as the Mayor speaks. He speaks slowly, nervously – a young man, this is his first year as Mayor – and glances often at the cameras, and when Lucrezia Bluefire takes the stage, he looks profoundly grateful to settle back into his own seat.

Lucrezia is tall and sharply, Classically beautiful, and when she takes the stage, there is an undeniable power to her presence. The effect, however, is lost when she speaks; her accent is trilling and light, of course, but her voice is also extremely high, even squeaky. She seems blissfully unaware of this fact, plunging ahead undaunted as she welcomes the crowds to the Reaping, batting her long black eyelashes coquettishly. She moves in tiny little steps, her skirt trailing along the stage, as she starts towards the Reaping ball and pulls out the first name.

"Daisy Goldenflower!"

* * *

It takes a long moment for her to register her name being called, as if the distance between Lucrezia and where Daisy stands at the back of the stockade has somehow been increased a thousandfold. Her perpetual smile drops off her face, but she starts forwards. The cameras capture her from every angle, the slight, blonde-haired little girl in the pink sundress, looking scared but still remarkably self-possessed as she walks slowly out from the stockade, flanked by Peacekeepers who dwarf her even more.

She can hear her heart, pounding in her head like a drumbeat; she feels it in the tips of her fingers and the sides of her neck, and she uses the beat to distract her – _lub-dub, lub-dub_, one foot in front of the other, marching to the speeding rhythm of the blood thundering in her ears. Her sandals stick to her feet; she's sweating, and not from the warmth. But her mind stays empty, distant, her mouth unsmiling and her eyes wide with fear.

_Lub-dub, lub-dub_. Her heart isn't slowing, but it's steady, if fast, as she mounts the steps. She concentrates on keeping pace with it, bringing her foot down on every other beat, walking steadily and deliberately across the stage towards Lucrezia. And then Lucrezia's hand closes around Daisy's, welcoming her onstage with a white-toothed smile, and suddenly it's all too much. She's not walking any more, and the thud of her heart isn't a distraction without the repetitive movement of her feet. Lucrezia's lips are red, red as blood, and her eyes are blankly uncaring, and it isn't even fear that brings the uncharacteristic tears to Daisy's eyes, but the sudden realisation that things are never going to be the same. The odds aren't in her favour, and if she dies, then that's the end for her family. No brothers, no sisters, no cousins, nobody. Her parents are going to be left all alone, and there's never going to be another Goldenflower.

It's a horrible thought, a thought with spikes on it, that catches in her throat and tears at her eyes. She never usually cries, not over anything, but as she steps to the back of the stage, it's impossible to stop the tears that are already starting to flow.

* * *

It's never nice when a twelve-year-old is Reaped. The fact that after that surprising show of confidence, she's already crying in full view of the cameras only makes it worse. It's depressing, not only for the District crowd – filled with people whose horrorstruck faces are clear from the stage and clearer on the screens – but for the Capitol audience as well.

The only person who seems unaffected is Lucrezia, who seems about as aware of the sadness of the situation as she is of the shrillness of her voice. She's still smiling, looking perfectly enthusiastic, as she steps up to draw the name of the male tribute.

"Bernard Stiles!"

* * *

It falls into his ears like a stone into a well, disturbing the stillness of his mind with breaking waves of sudden, chaotic panic. His face – thin, tan, and acne-scarred – remains impassive, besides maybe a slight tightening of his lips, but his heart is suddenly racing. Time seems to have slowed, flowing as sluggishly as tar around him as he struggles to keep his composure.

He isn't built for this. He's tall and skinny, with arms like wet rope, too weak to be a fighter, too shy to be a crowd-pleaser, not athletic enough to run and hide. In a straight fight, he won't stand a chance. The Games will chew him up and spit him out.

But he's rational, and he's used to hiding what he feels and fighting on through it. He swallows, raising his chin slightly, and with the world still feeling impossibly slow and distant, he starts to walk. With every step, he's thinking, turning the situation over and over in his head, keeping a lid on the wild terror and shock which threaten to overwhelm him. He has to start thinking how to win, and start early – he's at a disadvantage, and always will be, so he needs any edge he can get. What can he do? Well, screaming and running – which is what every instinct is telling him to do – is clearly not an option. He has to be brave. He has to be fearless. What do Careers do?

_They close off_, comes the answer, almost immediate. _Look at a Career. They don't seem human. That's what they teach them, when they train them. Not to be human. Not to be weak._

All right, then. He swallows, once, and tries not to let his eyes slide sideways to Ian. Then, steeling himself against the roaring fear in his head, he raises his chin a little, schools the last of the expression off his face, and steps out of the stockade. He doesn't try for confidence or swagger, he doesn't shrink from the cameras, and he neither smiles nor frowns. He is expressionless, unreadable, almost inhuman.

They want a killer, and he'll give them one.

* * *

It looks rather pathetic, when Lucrezia steps back to let the Mayor speak. The young Mayor, still stuttering and stumbling uncertainly through the Treatyand clearly hyperaware of the cameras; little Daisy, standing with her head in her hands and her shoulder shaking with racking sobs; and bony, acne-ridden Bernard, whose calm demeanour and apparent stillness doesn't quite make up for the fact that he looks like he might struggle to lift a weapon, let alone use one. But there is a certain strength to the gesture when, as they shake hands, Bernard squeezes Daisy's hand, reassuringly if awkwardly. She sniffles, wiping her eyes on her sleeve, and manages to smile up at him.

The applause is weak, the bare minimum required from the District, as the anthem strikes up. When the cameras shift to Ten, to rolling fields and open skies, Bernard and Daisy have stepped apart again, but Daisy is no longer crying.

In Ten, the Representative is Avena Madder, young and petite and cheerful, who springs up to the Reaping balls almost before the Mayor's finished his history speech. She's smiling almost manically, her teeth dazzlingly white and sharp, and her purple eyes bright. Her long violet hair is so painstakingly coiffed and sprayed that hardly a strand moves, no matter how much she bounces around, and her dark skin doesn't seem to have any pores at all. Even by Capitol standards, she looks like a doll, if a very beautiful one.

When she dips into the Reaping ball – a swift, shallow motion, no digging or rummaging here – it's with a cheerful "Ladies first, as always!" and a brighter smile yet, until it seems like her face might split in two. She clears her throat, still smiling, and unfolds the paper with a flick.

"Lailani Riza!"

* * *

It takes a moment, and a light push in the shoulder, before she starts moving. Her limbs feel leaden, her heart seems to have stopped, and something's constricting around her chest, because this can't be right. It can't be. She must have misheard, or Avena must have misspoken, there must have been a mistake _somewhere_, because it _can't_ be her name on that paper, and that brown-skinned, black-haired girl whose face is on every screen above the stage must be another girl. It doesn't matter that when she blinks, so does the girl on the screen, or that when she steps forwards, so does that girl. It doesn't matter, because it can't be her.

But the Peacekeepers step in to escort her up to the stage, and when one of their hands presses against the shoulder of the girl on the screen, Lani feels the pressure on her own shoulder, and suddenly, her heart's gone from standing still to trying to thunder its way out of her chest. It can't be her, but it _is_ her, and for a moment, she doesn't know what to do.

Instinct kicks in, an instinct honed by years watching the Reapings, and before she's even really come to terms with the idea that she's the tribute, she's already taking action. A small, confident smile quirking at the lips, a toss of her head, an attempt to wipe the fear from her brown eyes. She's a good liar, but what's needed here is to lie to herself – to convince herself that she's ready, that all the training her brothers made her do is going to pay off, that she's not going to die. She can't die. If she dies, her brothers will never let her hear the end of it.

It's banal, but it gets her up to the stage, where Avena pumps her hand with far more enthusiasm than anyone should be able to put into a handshake. Lani smiles back at her, a thin, sarcastic smile which looks like nothing next to Avena's perpetual grin, and takes in the applause as she steps back into place. Her chest still feels constricted, her breathing a struggle, but she almost believes she can do this. She's never let other people get the better of her before. She's not going to start now.

* * *

Avena's applause is louder than anyone else's. She seems genuinely excited by the Reaping, and it's easy to believe that the smile she's still wearing is honest; it's the only part of her that looks real, even fixed as it is. As Lailani steps back, Avena bounces over to the boys' Reaping ball, clapping her hands together again like a little child, and pulls out the first name on the top.

"Lysander Bowie!"

* * *

He shouldn't be afraid. He's faced death before – the old burn scars on his face and arm are testament to that – and from everything Jareth's said to him, he thought that facing death once would make facing it again that much easier. And maybe it does, because he doesn't panic and he doesn't freeze, and his rational mind goes on ticking, although adrenaline spikes briefly through his system.

But he's still afraid, and it's that, not his name being called, which takes him off-guard. Still, he manages to keep himself together, reaching up to push back his unruly blonde hair as he starts towards the stage. Like Lailani before him, he keeps his head up and his expression steady, relaxing as much as he can, his arms swinging loosely at his side as he takes long, even strides out of the stockade. In a strange kind of way, the walk up to the stage is a thousand times scarier than diving into the fire all those years ago. Then, it was quick and adrenaline-fuelled, a panic response, something he didn't even think about. Then, the danger was immediate, and he could do something about it.

Now, he can't do anything. He's trapped, like a fly under glass, in the glare of the cameras. There's no choice, no decision to make, nothing he can do but follow the pattern the Capitol set for him and do it as bravely as possible. Up the steps, onto the pallets of the stage. Jareth sits at the back, with the other Victors, and for a moment Lysander locks eyes with him, hoping that Jareth will be his mentor. Jareth's been training him for years, and if anyone can see Lysander through the Games, it's him.

But Lysander can't focus too long on that. The cameras are on him, and he has to act as if his life depended on it, because it does. He has to be confident, be brave, be aloof but likeable, and most of all, not let anyone in on the fact that he _fears_ this. He doesn't talk to Avena, and he doesn't shake her proffered hand; he just takes up his place next to Lailani, staring out at the crowd, and stands strong as the applause washes over him.

* * *

Avena seems completely unfazed by the apparent snub, and applauds just as loudly for Lysander as she did for Lailani. The cameras linger on him a little longer – he's a good subject for the screen, handsome and steady, with a touch of mystery added by the scarring which covers one eye – before turning to the Mayor as he steps up to the podium. As the Treaty is read, the cameras focus in on him, and then the crowd, and then back to the tributes, just in time for them to shake hands.

They have a lot in common. Both are seventeen, and hold themselves well, with adult presence. Both, when they shake hands, do so firmly, and make eye contact, her monolidded brown eyes meeting his bright blue ones. Their handshake is brief, and both, when they step away, seem to do so with mutual respect. As the anthem strikes up yet again, and the cameras pan over the green fields of Ten and then cut away to Eleven, things are looking up. Certainly, after the poor showing from Nine, the tributes from Ten seem to have the odds a little more in their favour.


	8. Reapings 11 & 12: Still Bravely Singing

**A/N:** I know I said this wouldn't update until December, but three things made me change my mind. One, my NaNo is coming on better than I'd expected (33,047 words out of 50,000!) so it seemed okay to take a break. Two, it was bothering me that I hadn't finished the Reapings. And, three, in the UK (and Commonwealth) today is Remembrance Day, the anniversary of the end of WWI, so given that WWI is the theme of this fic, I thought it seemed appropriate.  
Next week, I'll post an explanation of how I'm going to organise this fic. After that, hopefully, normal service should resume. Thanks for your patience!

* * *

**6 - The Larks, Still Bravely Singing**

In Eleven, the sky seems wider, stretching clear and blue over orchards and fields. Despite the obvious poverty of its people, Eleven is a beautiful District, green and fresh-looking to a Capitol eye, and the cameras spend more time scanning the landscape than they do the huddled masses of bony, hungry-looking children in the stockade. The corn is ripening on the hills, and the ordered rows of fruit-trees are a far cry from the trees in the other wooded Districts, which grow higgledy-piggledy and wild.

The Mayor of Eleven is a woman, tall and dark, her cropped black curls streaked with grey. She speaks solemnly, slowly, and at length, which would be less of a problem if anyone there hadn't heard the whole speech before. By the time she steps down, giving way to the Escort, the whole of Panem is bored. It's a relief to change hands to Steffi Frost, who is young and bright and cheerful and whose unnaturally white skin makes her stick out like a sore thumb among the dark citizens of Eleven.

"Happy Hunger Games, District Eleven!" she trills. "And may the odds be ever in your favour!"

She's greeted by flat silence from the crowd, which doesn't seem to bother her in the slightest. Her ruffled silver gown flouncing around her, she trips up to the Reaping ball with a bright smile of her black-lined red lips, plunging her gloved hand into the girls' names. "Sift Grange!"

* * *

Her first thought, oddly, is a weary _Of course it would be me_. Her last Reaping. The last time she _could_ be Reaped. When she'd got ready that morning, slipping into her too-small dress and fastening the sleeves with safety pins around her swollen wrists, it had been with the silent promise to herself that this was the last time she'd ever have to do it.

Well, she was right about that, at least. It's the last time she'll ever have to be at a Reaping. In fact, it's probably the last time she was ever going to be free, even the limited freedom offered in Eleven. The last time she'll ever be home. The thought slides into her mind like a chip of ice, and suddenly, without any kind of in-between stage, she's terrified. She's going to die. She isn't going to slave on for decades and then collapse, as she's always assumed, she's going to _die_, and suddenly the long thankless struggle of life looks friendlier than it ever has.

But the fear is distant and unimportant. She feels like she's left her body, like she's looking down at herself, the tall, bony, ebony-skinned girl with careful twists of hair barely moving against her shoulders as she starts up to the stage. Everyone is watching her, and so she watches herself, too, without thinking _how can I look right?_ or _how can I seem strong_? She still walks with her habitual stoop, a little knock-kneed, her face remarkably blank. Up onto the stage. Shake hands with Steffi. Step back to the back of the stage to wait. Somehow, more important than any of that is the feel of her worn green skirt against her bony thighs, the light breeze in the air, and the smell of compost wafting in from the fields nearby.

_Of course it would be me. _She should have seen it coming. But she didn't. _At least it wasn't Coppice_.

* * *

As Sift steps back, the applause rises listlessly, to more or less exactly what's required by the Capitol, and then peters out almost at once. Only Steffi keeps on clapping more than a few moments, and she looks like she's struggling a little to be unfazed. She's only at the start of her career, a new Escort this year, and her inexperience shows. As the silence stretches out around her, she stops, looking a little uncertain, and lets her hands drop to her sides. There's a moment before she springs back into action, her smile plastered back onto her face.

"And now, let's hear a big hand for our boy Tribute... Husk Sarter!"

* * *

_You're joking._ The thought comes flatly, then again, angrily. _You have to be joking!_ His fists clench and unclench at his sides, and his jaw shifts slightly, but he's already moving, steadily and calmly, out of the stockade and up to the stage. The cameras catch him as he walks; his black shirt, ruffling slightly in the rising breeze, his solid build, the almost-red of his brown eyes. He looks phenomenally, icily calm. Under the surface, though, he isn't calm at all; his anger bubbles up like tar, and, paradoxically, it's what keeps him moving so calmly, his expression flat and unreadable.

Striding up the steps to the raised pallets of the stage, his hands swinging loosely at his sides, he starts towards Steffi, who holds out her hand and greets him enthusiastically as the lacklustre applause starts again. "Husk! It's such a pleasure to meet you!" she enthuses, as she comes closer.

He looks at her with disgust. She is thin, fussy, surgically enhanced to the point of inhumanity. Her smile's too wide, her eyes too vacant, everything about her is shallow and false. She's the Capitol incarnate, and with a sudden roiling surge of hatred, he bunches his fist, grabs her outstretched hand, and punches her solidly in the gut.

The applause stops dead. _Everything_ stops. Steffi doubles over, wheezing, tears of shock streaking her eye makeup as her scarlet lips part in an O of surprise and pain and her white wig slips drunkenly over one eye. For a moment, everything stretches out in a long moment of silence, shock, horror tinged with an odd admiration from the crowd. Husk smirks, satisfied by the ripple of shock and the obvious effect it's had on Steffi – and they can't do anything to him, not really. He's already condemned. _That's showed her_.

And then the moment ends, and reality piles back in. The Peacekeepers lunge forwards, one of them pulling him back so hard that it feels like she's ripping his arms out of their sockets. Steffi half-straightens, her blue eyes big and teary, her arm wrapped over her stomach, and has to be helped back to her seat. She seems to be in shock. Hell, the whole District is in shock.

But not Husk. Husk is still smiling.

* * *

Normal service takes a little while to resume. The mayor is as shocked as everyone else, and without Steffi's proper withdrawal to give her her cue, she needs a little push to get back to the podium. Despite her experience with Reapings, she's never seen one like this, no more than anyone else has. All through her reading of the Treaty, her eyes flicker uncertainly to Husk, still held by the Peacekeeper, as if she's afraid she might be next.

When she eventually finishes and signals for the tributes to shake hands, there's a moment of uncertainty. Eventually, the Peacekeeper holding Husk lets one of his arms go, but only one, marching him to the centre of the stage with her hand on her truncheon. Sift eyes her fellow tribute warily, but neither of them offer their hands first. For a moment, they're frozen there – the tall, dark girl with the lopsided face and hunk of scar tissue over one eye, and the younger, smaller, lighter-skinned boy in the Peacekeeper's grip. Panem holds its breath.

At last, they shake, and almost as soon as their hands touch, Husk is pulled away again, frogmarched off the stage as the anthem strikes up. Sift follows after a moment, with a sidelong glance out at the audience, and the cameras move on to the twelfth and last Reaping. Here, the chaos of Eleven is easily forgotten; the square is packed, and none of the crowd are any more excited than usual. After all, none of them know.

The Escort is Zona Fairweather, young and a little nervous, although she has potential. This is her first year, too, after the regretful disappearance of Celia Blesser, who until last year was the Representative. Zona is tall and curvy, with cobalt-coloured eyebrows which arch too high for her face, and although she falters a little on her way up to the front of the stage, her smile is wide and dazzling and her "Happy Hunger Games!" is, if anything, a little _too_ enthusiastic. Out comes the first name and, with a flourish, she unrolls the paper.

"Piper Rhuste!"

* * *

Piper's horrified. Of course she is. But hot on the heels of her fear and shock comes the much more familiar bubble of excitement. She gets to see the Capitol, and be a star! She'll meet Caesar Flickerman, and get to see inside the Remake Centre, and if it's brutal and terrifying and horrific, so what? She'll be fine. She always is.

So her response isn't fear, or rage, or sadness and shock. It's a "Me? Cool!" as she all but skips up to the stage, her perpetual smile barely faltering. On the screens, the cameras track her progress, and she looks up at them with interest. She hasn't seen herself like this before – it isn't like looking in a mirror, really. She can see the back of her head, where her curly black hair hasn't been brushed properly, and the crookedness of her teeth, looking whiter than they actually are in contrast to her dark olive skin. It's weird, seeing herself like that, but she guesses she'll get used to it over the next few days, when the cameras are always on her.

"Piper," Zona greets her warmly, shaking her hand. "Congratulations! May the odds be ever in your favour."

"Your dress is falling off," she answers, and smiles brightly at the Escort. "Don't they have sleeves in the Capitol?"

Zona blinks, letting go of Piper's hand. "Um..." she says, rather unprofessionally, and reaches up to adjust the low neckline of her sleeveless dress, which is indeed working its way down. "Thanks?"

"You're welcome." If Zona's being sarcastic, Piper doesn't care. She waves to the cameras, and gives Zona another cheerful smile, then steps back into her place on the stage, looking out at the packed square. Somewhere out there, her mother's watching. Piper just hopes she sees the bright side.

* * *

Zona seems equal parts reassured and thrown by that first tribute. Her smile widens, and she's lost a little of her hesitation as she moves up to the boys' Reaping ball, but it's noticeable that, for the rest of the Reaping, her eyes keep flicking down to her significant chest, and she keeps fiddling with her dress, trying to rearrange it so it's just so. She's tugging at it with one hand even as she delves her hand into the ball of names.

"Ash Ember!"

* * *

It takes him by surprise, but only for a second. The chances weren't high that this would happen, but so what? He's ready. He wouldn't have chosen it, of course, but he's ready, and anyone who thinks otherwise has got another think coming. If he can fight the older boys from the mines, why shouldn't he be able to fight older boys from other Districts?

He isn't scared, that's the thing. He walks out from the other fifteen-year-olds, where he sticks out a mile off with his Seam looks among the merchants, and strides up to the stage with his arms swinging casually at his sides. They can throw what they like at him. Big brutes from Two, or trained fighters from One, traps or pitfalls or just straight-up violence. He's got something they don't have, and that's guts. So he's not scared, because he knows he'll fight whatever they send his way, and with that confidence unique to teenage boys, he knows he'll _win_ against whatever it is. And even if he doesn't, he'll go down fighting with his face towards the foe.

"Bring it on!" he says out loud, as he pumps Zona's hand, and grins from ear to ear. Now that he thinks about it, now that there's no turning back, he's kind of looking forwards to it. It's a challenge, and he thrives on challenges; it's like someone's thrown down the gauntlet, and he's always up for fighting when someone does that. And, after all, there are only twenty-four of them.

The odds are _totally_ in his favour.

* * *

The Mayor steps up, and for the last time today, the Treaty is read. For the last time today, there is that handshake, that air of ritual. The cameras focus in on the tributes - she lanky and tall, he tiny and skinny, but both with Seam looks and both, unusually, still smiling. Their smiles have very different kinds of excitement to them, but both seem more excited than anyone expects outside the Career Districts, and they shake hands enthusiastically.

When they step apart, Ash's hands going into the pockets of his black slacks and Piper mussing up her already messy hair, the applause sounds almost genuine. It isn't often Twelve gets tributes who seem to have so much confidence. It's refreshing, and not a little reassuring – and, of course, it's an excellent note to finish the show on. It couldn't have been better if it had been planned that way.

Now, as the anthem strikes up one more time and the cameras pan over the applauding crowds, it's easy to cut out at the end, easy to move on. That's it, for now. The Reapings are over.

Let the Games begin.


	9. How This Fic Actually Works

Okay, so I decided when I started this fic that I didn't want it to be entirely about my decisions and my choices. There are several reasons for this, but the main one is that I think the whole point of an SYOT is to be interactive and to provide a different experience from just reading a fic.

In this fic, as would happen in the real Hunger Games, the survival of each tribute will be decided by a combination of factors; the support or otherwise of the sponsors in the Capitol and Districts (or, in this case, in the reviews page and my inbox), the whim of the Gamemakers (i.e., me), their own skills and personality, and a healthy dose of luck.

Here's how it's going to work:

* * *

**I GIVE EACH TRIBUTE A STARTING MARK OUT OF TEN:**

Points out of six for my personal preference, points out of four for their chances. The breakdown, if you're interested, is as follows:

- ?/4 for their app - how creative their character concept was, how much I liked them, how much detail was included, stuff like that.  
- ?/2 for writing them - how easy I found it to write their Reapings, and how interesting I found them once I started to actually write.

- ?/2 for skill - have they been trained, do they have a job which would give relevant skills, are their personal skills likely to help them _in the Arena I have planned_, will they attract sponsors, etc.  
- ?/1 for Career - simple enough, are they from a Career District? Reasonably, they'll have the edge if they are, so they get a point.  
- ?/1 for age - again, simple enough, because older tributes will have a better chance just based on size and experience. Tributes over 16 get this point.

I will not tell you what score your tribute got. I'm not opening myself up to that. Suffice to say that I've put a lot of thought into these scores, and I'd appreciate it if you'd respect that I had my reasons for every score I've given, they're not personal attacks or even attacks on your characters if they're low. Clear enough? Right, stage 2:

**YOU VOTE FOR YOUR FAVOURITES:**

Okay, this one should be fairly simple. You leave the name of a tribute in a review, or PM me your vote. Rules for submissions are below. READ THEM. If you ignore them, your vote may be taken away instead of added.

For each vote a character gets, they gain one point on top of their starting score.

If they get 5 votes in one chapter (4 for a Career, because yes, this skews the game in favour of the Career Districts, but the canon Games are skewed in their favour too) then they will get a sponsorship gift suitable to their situation in the next chapter. (The numbers may change according to how the voting actually pans out, because I've never done this before and I'm not sure how many votes to expect)

**LADY LUCK DOES THE REST:**

At the start of each chapter after the tributes enter the Arena, I will use a random number generator to decide how many characters will die in that chapter. (In the bloodbath, the number will be between 3 and 10; in later chapters, it will probably be taken from a range of 0-3) I will then take that number of tributes from the bottom of the list (so the tributes with the lowest combined score of votes and starting score)

If I feel particularly evil, I may have one or two chapters which are "wildcards", where I use the number generator more directly and pick an entirely random tribute to come by an unlucky accident.

* * *

So, in case that wasn't clear: each tribute has a score out of ten. This starting score is added to the total number of votes they receive to give them a score at the start of each chapter. When I select the number of tributes to die horribly, I will take the tributes with the lowest total scores. Hopefully, that's easy to understand. I think I've spent too much time doing tabletop RP.

Of course, there are rules! Please read them, please follow them. If you break them, I reserve the right to take whatever action I deem appropriate, which will probably mean your vote is either not counted or is counted as -1 instead of +1. (Which I would really rather not do, because I'm keeping these tallies in pen)

* * *

**VOTING RULES**

1. One vote per person per chapter. You don't have to vote every chapter, and you don't have to vote for the same character every time, but one reviewer, one vote.

2. You CANNOT vote for your own tribute. Nuh-uh. If we make that the thing, everyone will just vote for their own characters and the people with more than one character in the fic will be at a distinct disadvantage. If I catch you voting for your own character, that vote definitely counts as -1.

3. As I said, votes can be left in review or in PM. If you review, make sure you review the right chapter; if you PM me, say which chapter you're casting your vote on.

4. Anon voting is allowed. This is for the benefit of people who don't have a site account who might still want to vote. **If I think you're using anonymous voting to break rules 1 or 2, I will disallow anon votes**.

5. The Gamemaker's decision is final. Like I said, I've put a lot of thought into this, and I've tried to make it as fair as possible. Please don't accuse me of favouritism/lying/hocking the votes/anything else if your character dies. Just making this clear; that is not OK.

6. Voting starts from the _next_ chapter I put up (which will be the tributes' goodbyes). No votes left on the Reaping chapters will be counted. No votes left on OOC/admin chapters (like this one) will be counted.

* * *

Hopefully that all makes sense. Questions? Concerns? Review button is down there, or you can PM me!


	10. Goodbyes 1: Goodbye To All That

**A/N:** SORRY SORRY SORRY SORRY! I know I said I was going to update, like, three months ago, but things got crazy, yo. Plus I only had really expensive internet in Malta, so I couldn't reread the applications to write this chapter, because I was trying not to use the internet too much. BUT I am back home now, and hopefully in a position to start updating properly again.  
The goodbyes were meant to be one chapter, but it got ridiculously long, so I split it in half. I think/hope this will be the last chapter to be so long, although I suspect the interview one might be very long as well. I'll try to have part 2 of this chapter up in the next couple of days, so I don't keep you all on tenterhooks.  
Thanks for bearing with me. I'm sorry I've been so fail.

* * *

**7 - Goodbye To All That**

The Justice Building in One is palatial – there's no other word for it. Platinum and Nessa are led into the arching hallway, where the jewelled inlays and velvet hangings stretch down from vaulted marble ceilings. Their footsteps, and those of the Peacekeepers, echo and multiply, filling the corridor with the sound of boots on mosaic. Halfway down the corridor, the Peacekeepers stop and split into two groups, each group escorting a tribute into a different room.

Platinum is taken to the left, into a large room with plush couches against each wall, blue velvet with golden silk cushions spread artfully along each comfortable seat. He tosses two cushions to the side, unimpressed by their opulence and the scrunching rustle they make when he touches them, and sits with his legs apart and his chin resting on his folded hands, watching as the Peacekeepers withdraw back into the corridor. He's looking forwards to the Games, but that doesn't mean he's looking forwards to saying goodbye, and when his family are ushered in, a little of his taciturn nature relaxes.

Lace, his little sister, comes first. He hugs her tight, but briefly, and touches her narrow shoulder as he nods to his parents. They don't exchange more than a few words; as a family, they share that silent, stiff nature, and nothing much needs to be said. It's all communicated in the hug his mother gives him, and the pat on the back from his father. Then there's Pearl, his twin sister, who hangs back from the other three for a moment, smiling slightly, then comes to join him as they pull away.

"You remember what we've practiced, all right, Plat?" she says, with a smile. "Hit fast, hit hard, and don't let anyone else take the upper hand even for a moment."

Platinum nods understanding, smiling back. He's been training with Pearl for years now, and he knows she's proud to see him finally have the chance to use the practice. If anyone understands how proud he is to be chosen, it's Pearl. He feels a rush of affection for her, and pulls her into an uncharacteristic hug.

She extricates herself a little awkwardly, holding something out to him. "Here. Remember this?"

"Grandma's badge." Platinum raises his eyes to her, taking the silver pin out of her hand with a little smile of recollection. "She always said it was the oldest thing she had. From before Panem, right?"

"Ought to be a good token, don't you think?" Pearl smiles at him, nodding. "I'm proud of you, Plat. When you're done, everyone in Panem is going to know your name."

"You make sure it's for the right reasons, though, you hear?" He's fairly sure his mother's joking, but he recognises the undercurrent, the one that says she'll be disappointed in him if he doesn't come back covered in glory, and it annoys him, souring the mood. His family leave not long after, leaving him to sit and wait a good five minutes before his next visitors.

Vine and Tiger spend a while in the room, smiling and joking with barely-veiled envy. Platinum, as usual, is the quietest of the three, but he gains more than a little satisfaction from their obvious jealousy, which only confirms how lucky he is. He is, however, genuinely sad to say goodbye to them, even when he's fairly sure he'll see them again after the Games. His easiest visitor to deal with, though, is Value, his best friend. They sit together on the plush couches, talking little but saying a lot when they do.

"Next year," Value says, as the Peacekeepers open the door and he gets up to leave. "You'll be my mentor next year, right?"

"Right." Platinum smiles, nodding. "Next year. See you after the Games, Vale."

"Good luck," Value replies, and the hour's goodbyes end.

* * *

The room Nessa is taken into is plush and comfortable, the varnished ebony couches upholstered in spotless lilac, the cushions silver. She settles herself down at the end of a couch, slipping off her heels to tuck one leg under herself. The Peacekeepers leave her there to sip at the glass of water left on one of the tables, looking around the room with some interest. Although she's used to a degree of luxury – she _is_ from District One, after all – the sheer opulence of the Justice Building shocks her, and not in a good way. Nessa has always been a believer in function, and a lot of this room, from the crenellations encrusting the ceiling to the delicate ribbing of the couch arms, looks like it makes the room less functional, not more.

She's distracted from her contemplation of the room as the heavy ebony door creaks open again and her parents are allowed in. Angela and Gasparo Adassi look perfectly at home in the magnificent room, both neat and well put-together, standing side by side in the middle of the thick cream-coloured carpet. Nessa smiles at them, rendered almost shy, as they sit down on the couch opposite with the whisper of velvet. For a moment, the family regard each other across the room, and then Gasparo breaks into a smile.

"We're so proud of you, Giada." His eyes, the same blue-grey as hers, crinkle at the corners, and she feels a wave of pleasure. She knows how hard it is to impress either of her parents, and her father's pride is a valuable thing.

"I won't let you down," she assures them, with a smile of her own, sitting up a little straighter. "You'll see."

"Just don't get complacent." Gasparo's voice is back to its usual strict tones, although he's still smiling. "Remember, everyone's watching. You're not so good that you can afford to let your guard down. And don't forget that your best weapon is speed, not strength. Look out for that Lux boy. He's twice your size, and a better fighter. You owe it to all of us to come back in one piece."

Nessa nods, her smile fading a little into a studious expression. Gasparo is an experienced coach, and she knows it's best to listen to what he says. And listen she does, for most of the hour, her surroundings forgotten as he reminds her of all the tricks they've studied. He gets up and paces, insisting that she show him some of her practiced moves; her handsprings and rolls feel different on the soft fibres of the carpet. At the end of the hour, she's flushed and breathing a little heavily, her hair a little disordered. She smooths it with one hand, looking up at her father.

"I'm ready, I think," she says, with a little smile.

"Not yet, you're not," he says sternly, but then smiles. "But you will be. Make me proud, Giada."

She will, she promises herself as they leave. She will.

* * *

Avius and Brooke follow the Peacekeepers into the Justice Building without a backwards glance. Neither of them look to one side or the other, although the carved stone of the building is exquisite, the design and workmanship sublime. They simply stride on, heads held high, not looking at each other or at the Peacekeepers, until they are shown into their separate rooms.

Avius settles easily into the room, which is made of marble so fine it's almost translucent, worked by skilled hands into deep reliefs showing the history of Panem. He doesn't spare the reliefs more than a cursory glance, although he quite likes the one showing the Capitol putting down the rebellion. There's a real knowledge put into the broken angles of the rebels' bodies. As a butcher's son, he knows what dead things look like, and the artist's captured the moment perfectly.

Settling back in the plush seat, he closes his eyes for a moment, allowing a thin smile to come over his face. He's made it. He's really here. He's on the brink of greatness, in just the way that suits him best. He's just enjoying that moment, the anticipation of the adventure to come, when the door creaks open to admit his parents. His mother rushes over to embrace him, much to his irritation, and holds him tight, like he's still a child. With difficulty, he extricates himself, trying to push her away. She's sobbing.

"What's wrong with you?" he asks her harshly, rolling his eyes. "Anyone'd think something terrible just happened."

"Well, it sort of did." His father sounds jovial, which is almost as annoying as the knowledge that he's as worried over Avius as his wife. Avius resents that, resents them flapping around as if this wasn't the best thing that's ever happened to him. "The butcher's just lost one of its best workers."

"I'll be cutting up better meat in the Arena," Avius assures him, with another toothy smirk. "Stop making such a fuss. You know I'll be fine, and if I'm not, there's no better way to go."

"How can you _say_ that? What if you're wrong? What if we never see you again?" His mother sounds affronted and a little hurt. He sneers at her expression.

"You will. You'll see me slicing the other tributes up on TV, and you'll probably get queasy and have to look away, knowing you. But you're worrying over nothing."

She looks unconvinced, but Avius doesn't much care. Irritably, he suffers through a round of hugs and, nauseatingly, kisses, and he's profoundly relieved when, driven away by his lack of response, they leave after only half an hour or so. That leaves him plenty of time to prepare himself mentally – to think of all the wonders of the Games lying ahead.

* * *

Brooke is relieved by how big the room is. Keyed-up as she is by the excitement of the Reaping, her claustrophobia seems like a real danger. Besides, she knows her father will be coming to say his goodbyes, and the last thing she wants is to be trapped in a small room with him. But the room is large and spacious, and the Peacekeepers are right outside. He won't dare to try anything – and, she reminds herself, this is the last time she'll have to see him until after the Games.

Nonetheless, she's suddenly nervous, and when he comes in with her mother, she's still standing, pretending to examine the carved frieze of Panem's Districts on one wall. She turns her head as they walk in; he's smiling, the warm, cheery smile which sends a chill down her spine. Brooke focuses on her mother instead; Sage looks close to crying with pride as she reaches out for her daughter. Her hug is brief, but tight, and she dabs at her eyes as she pulls away. "Oh, Brooke. I'm sorry, I just... I'm so proud of you. Aren't you excited?"

Brooke's smile is genuine, if a little tight. She knows how important the Games are to her mother, and she knows Sage's emotions aren't at all feigned. "How could I _not_ be excited? It's the _Games_!"

Sage laughs, stepping back to take her husband's arm. Brooke's hackles rise at that; she hates to see her mother, who she loves so much, sticking so closely to her monster of a husband. Demetri, for his part, puts his hand over his wife's, giving her a fond smile, before stepping forwards to pull Brooke into a hug. It's tight enough to send a stab of pain through the bruises he gave her earlier that week, but Brooke doesn't flinch – not now, and not while her mum's there. Although his touch makes her skin rise into gooseflesh, she makes herself return his hug.

"You be careful," he says, pulling back, and although it sounds cheerful enough, there's an undercurrent to the tone and a flash to his eyes which says there's more to it than that. She understands perfectly. She's to be careful, not just about herself, but about letting slip what he does to her – and she understands, more from her knowledge of him than from anything he says or does now, that if she lets it slip and survives, he'll make the Games look like a picnic in comparison. Even though it hurts to say goodbye to her mother, she's still very relieved when the two of them leave. She's flopped down on the couch, letting out a long breath after the tension of having her father around, when Acron comes in.

Acron, her best friend, is reassuringly grounded. He seems...proud of her, yes, and a little worried for her, but not ridiculously to either extreme. She's smiling again five minutes after he walks through the door. He's confident about her chances, reassures her that he knows what he's talking about – haven't they trained together for years, after all? – and warns her to look out for Avius, who he knows by reputation as a sadist. When he leaves, despite how certain she is that she's done the right thing, Brooke almost cries. The thought that, if she loses, she'll never see him again... that thought hurts. She hugs him tight before he leaves, and wipes her eyes, checking her makeup in the mirror on the wall. She can't look upset when it comes to the cameras at the station, after all.

* * *

In Three, the Justice Building is brightly-lit and filled with art and furniture which cost more money than Silk or Singe have ever seen in one place. Both teenagers stare at the high ceilings and brightly mosaiced floors in undisguised wonder, Singe's eyes wide, Silk's jaw slack – although a keen-eyed observer might spot that Silk's eyes turn occasionally to Singe, taking her in, watching her carefully, gauging her.

He relaxes a little once he's in the room where he'll spend the next hour, dropping the scared-little-boy act as soon as he and Singe go their separate ways. Strategy is one thing, but trying to be small and unassuming for so long is wearing. The thought of keeping up the act all through the Games isn't a pleasant one, but it's the best plan he has.

There are no friends visiting Silk, only his family. His father's face, when he walks in, is unreadable. By contrast, the twins are open books; they hold hands tightly, looking even younger than their seven years, looking up at Silk. Lynn's usual smile is completely gone, and Rosie looks like she might actually cry. Almost before the door closes behind them, they've rushed forwards, and suddenly Silk has a twin hugging each leg tight. A lump forms in his throat and, sitting down, he pulls them both into a hug.

"Don't worry," Lynn tells him, after several moments, and wipes her eyes. "It's going to be okay. Right?" Her perpetual optimism seems to be failing her a little, though, and there's definite uncertainty in her voice. She changes tack. "When you come home, we're going to move into one of the big houses and everything's going to be better." This sounds more certain. Rosie pouts, clinging to Silk, and wipes her nose.

"Don't want you to go," she mumbles, into Silk's shirt. "It's stupid. Don't want you to die."

The lump in Silk's throat grows, but remembering that his dad's there, he swallows it back. He might cry for the cameras, when he gets to the train station, but he's not going to cry in front of his family. Instead, he just pulls Rosie closer, his hand clenching against her wild blonde hair, and shakes his head. "Don't be stupid," he says, a bit harshly. "I'm not going to die. I'm going to come back. It'll be fine. Just wait and see."

But when they leave, when his dad gives him an uncharacteristic and very tight hug and begs him to look after himself, Silk finds it a lot harder to hold onto that thought. If he doesn't make it back, it's going to break them. They've been broken once already, with his mother's death. He can't let that happen again.

* * *

Singe relaxes into one of the plush velvet chairs, her mind whirling. Here, away from the crowd and in the richly-decorated, Capitol-esque surroundings of the Justice Building, it's much easier to be excited about what she's been drafted into. She can look around and see, under the facades and the rich artwork of the walls, the whirring mechanisms that keep the place running; stroking her fingers under the unbelievably soft green velvet, she closes her eyes and pictures the mechanisms of the Arena, every Arena she's ever seen. She'll see it all close up. Maybe she can get close enough to see how it all works, the barriers and the traps and the microclimate, all engineered anew every year. Maybe it's all worth it, for that.

"Singe!" Her sister, Spark, rushes into the room, almost throwing herself into a hug. The older girl looks distraught, tears visible in her eyes as she pulls Singe close. "Oh, Singe! I couldn't believe it when they called your name out... I'm so sorry! I should have volunteered or something!"

Singe manages a smile, although Spark's hug is so tight she's having trouble breathing. "It's okay," she wheezes, giving Spark a hug in return. "It's okay. Really. I mean, when else am I going to get the chance to go to the Capitol and see the Games up close? It's step one, right?"

"Right. Right." Spark lets go of her, leaning back with a deep breath and fixing her hair with both hands. "Of course." She knows Singe's dream, and it's undeniable that winning the Games will bring her closer to being Head Gamemaker – after all, who better to run the Games than someone who knows them from inside as well as out? "You're sure, though? That you're going to be all right? Promise me, Singe. You've got to come back in one piece, and tell me all about it."

"I promise." Singe smiles. She'll miss Spark, she thinks, and bites down on her lip briefly before continuing. "I mean, if I can get through the interview, I can get through anything."

"You'll be okay." Spark's smile is reassuring. She sits down next to Singe, taking her hand. "We'll be rooting for you. Everyone's going to love you. Don't worry, Singe. Just keep your head up and smile, that's what matters." Another hug. If possible, it's tighter than the first. "Oh, I'm going to miss you. Come back safe. Please."

"I promise," Singe repeats, but quieter. When the Peacekeepers escort Spark out, that promise is still echoing in Singe's head. She just hopes, more than anything, it's a promise she can keep.

* * *

The Justice Building in Four is one of the few where the tributes' rooms have windows. The building is situated on the edge of a cliff, so the windows can look out without providing an escape route or any way to look in. The room they lead James into looks out across the bay, and from high above, he can see the fishing boats moored to the opposite shore. Nobody out on the water, though. Not on Reaping Day.

He looks away from the window, slouching on the silk cushions, and looks up as the door opens. His first visitor is his mother. She's red-eyed and haggard-faced, and he's not sure whether it's from crying or drinking. She looks as though she's been doing both, and her hug is clumsy, though heartfelt. "You'll be okay, won't you, Jamesy? You'll look after yourself?"

James laughs, with a confidence he's not entirely sure he feels, and wriggles out of her hug. "'Course I will! It's an adventure, right? What's the worst that could happen?"

She doesn't answer, although she sniffs loudly, which probably suggests she knows all too well what the worst that could happen is. James isn't heartless enough not to feel a pang at saying goodbye to his mother, but it has to be admitted that, with her sobbing and hugging and generally being embarrassingly overwrought, he's almost relieved when the Peacekeepers come in to escort her out. She's still crying as she leaves.

His friends are much less depressing. First Lloyd, who's duly impressed and happy to bolster James' confidence in his ability to get sponsors, then Josh, Spencer and Daisy, Oli, and finally Will. It's a full hour, and although everyone at least puts out the appearance of being sad to see him go, it makes James much happier about the whole thing. If nothing else, it's a reminder that he's popular, and in a competition like the Games, that counts for a lot. He has so many friends that they can't all get in to see him. If that isn't a good sign, he doesn't know what is.

When Will leaves, clapping James on the back and wishing him heartfelt good luck as the Peacekeepers escort him out, James flops back onto the couch, toying with the beaded necklace he wears. He's sad to be leaving, of course, but much more importantly, he's got the Capitol ahead of him, and a whole train journey filled with women to practice his flirting on. This is going to be fun.

* * *

Storm's room has a wider view than James'. From the wide window, she can see out to the open sea, where the gulls are wheeling and crying – although the glass is thick enough that she can't hear them, which gives the rather bizarre impression that she's watching a silent film. She sits with one of the blue silk cushions in her lap, staring out at the waves and struggling to keep her composure. She's been here before, visiting first Selene and then Sol; to her, the room, with its light perfumes and bright colours, might as well be sodden with blood. But she has to stay strong, because it will be just as hard for her family, who've been here twice as well.

She has a few minutes to steady herself before they're allowed in, and she even manages a smile. Lily is clearly, and openly, crying; Storm knows all too well how that feels, just like it felt for her when Selene volunteered for her. She hugs Lily close. "It's okay," she whispers, in her sister's ear. "It's okay. It's not your fault. I promise, it's not."

Lily nods tearfully, but won't be extricated from Storm's hug. Lifting the younger girl onto the seat beside her, Storm sighs and looks up at the other two; Shark and Dawn, her other brother and sister, look back solemnly. Their mother isn't there. Storm isn't surprised; nowadays, it's a rare day when their mother can overcome her agoraphobia enough to leave the house. Still, it stings a bit.

"You look after Mom, okay?" she says to them, after a long time. "Make sure she gets enough work in. And... listen, don't worry about taking tessarae. If I win, we'll never need them again, and if I don't..."

Shark nods, his usual cheerful demeanour nowhere to be seen. Dawn, for her part, juts her lip, then shakes her head defiantly. "They can't do this!" she declares, with the innocent confidence of youth. "They can't keep doing this to us! It's not _fair_!"

Storm doesn't have an answer to that. It _isn't_ fair. That much is obvious. But there's nothing they can do about it. There's nothing she can do at all, now, except hug her siblings and hold them tight, right up until the Peacekeepers come to drag them away – and it is literally dragging when it comes to Dawn, who throws a full-on tantrum when she's escorted out, little fists slamming against one of the Peacekeeper's breastplates. Storm grimaces, hoping there's no more backlash for that.

She has a moment's breathing space to try and stop herself crying, and then the door opens again to admit two more people; her boyfriend, Sam, and his sister Claire, Storm's best friend. All Storm's attempts not to cry go out of the window then, and she hugs them both fiercely, letting them hold her. With the lump in her throat growing by the minute, and tears stinging her eyes, she makes them both promise not to worry about her, swears that she'll be the first Star to come back in one piece. When she kisses Sam, as the Peacekeepers come to escort them out, the kiss is bitter and salty with both their tears.

* * *

After the soot and grime of the city outside, the sparkling splendour of the Justice Building in Five is a shock to the system. Even Jayden, who as the Mayor's son has grown up in relative wealth, has his breath taken away by the sheer intricacy of the place; Robyn stares open-mouthed, not even trying to hide her amazement at the gilt and marble of the hallways. She has to be nudged along by one of the Peacekeepers. Jayden gives her a little smile, hoping to reassure her, but she doesn't return it, and then she's whisked away by the Peacekeepers, and she's gone.

Jayden himself is led into one of the big rooms which open up from the end of the corridor, with a carved wooden bench upholstered in tapestried velvet. When he sits down on it, his feet don't touch the ground, swinging six inches about the luxuriant red and gold carpet. His hands twist together in his lap. After a moment, he hears his father's voice raised in the corridor, but through the thick door, he can't make out the words.

At last, the door opens and Mayor Taevyn is allowed in. He looks thoroughly upset, and as soon as the door opens, he sweeps over to hold Jayden, lifting his son right out of the seat as if he was still a little child. Jayden doesn't mind – in fact, despite how introverted he usually is, he clings onto his father in return, eyes screwed shut, face buried against the mayor's shoulder.

"We're going to get you out of this," Mayor Taevyn murmurs, setting Jayden down carefully and settling onto the bench next to him, arm around his shoulders. "I don't know how, but I'll find a way. There has to be a way."

"We can't do that, Will." Jayden's mother has been standing near the door, fading into the background as she so often does; now she steps forwards, her voice soft and sad.

"I know it's not right. It's an abuse of power, but, I mean, dammit, I'm _Mayor_, what's the good of being mayor if you can't even save your own son?" Jayden's never heard his father sound quite so frantic, and it scares him.

His mother looks away, covering her face with her hands, and takes a deep breath. "We _can't_. They'll come for us, and for him, it doesn't matter if you're Mayor. He's just going to have to..." She lets out a sob, unable to finish her sentence, and rushes over to sit at Jayden's other side. Mayor Taevyn falls into deathly silence, looking pale and drawn, and they sit there for the whole hour, long after the Peacekeepers should have taken them away, just holding each other. At last, though, their time's up.

Before she goes, his mother passes him a scrap of paper – a scrap, he sees, from one of his notebooks of antique poetry. "For your token," she murmurs, through tears, and kisses the top of his head. "Take care, Jayden. Please, please come home safe."

And all he can say, shakily, honestly, is "I'll try."

* * *

Robyn's eyes rove all over the room she's led into, taking in every detail of the carving, the gilding, the paintings on the wall. She's never been anywhere so rich, and it's a far cry from the crowded room she shares with her family. That said, she'd trade it in a moment, if she meant she could be back in their flat, with her brothers stealing her notebook and her sister sighing dramatically at her.

Instead, when they come to say goodbye, Cherish doesn't have any dramatic sighs or scathing remarks about how Robyn should be more... whatever, and even Stevo and Kev don't seem inclined to mock her. That's almost the most unsettling thing about this whole horrible ordeal. Robyn clutches her notebook to her chest and wishes fervently for this whole thing to be over. She wants it all to be a bad dream, because even school and family and hiding from the world is better than this.

Kev tries to joke, and calls her Rob, which she hates. It falls flat, anyway. Nobody's smiling in the room, and Robyn's quiet and unresponsive, her knees curled up to her chest. Cherish gives her a hug, and leans over to try and fix Robyn's hair and make-up from a little bag she pulls out of her purse, and it's so obvious that she's struggling that Robyn even lets her. But when they're all gone and the room's empty again, with twenty minutes until she has to go, that's when Robyn can breathe again.

Reaching up, she toys with a strand of the hair Cherish so painstakingly brushed out, opens her notebook, and starts to write. Jayden, Mayor Taevyn, the Mentors and Escorts and Peacekeepers... she adds to each of their entries, very carefully, chewing on the end of her pen. By the time the Peacekeepers come to take her to the station, she's almost forgotten what a horrible situation she's in.

* * *

It's almost possible to forget the situation he's in when Joshua looks around the Justice Building. Used to the crowded, dark confines of the District Six orphanage, he's dazzled by the brightness and richness of the room around him. The velvet curtains are softer than anything he's touched, and the carpet he's walking on feels so thick he's almost afraid he might sink into it.

He knows nobody's coming to say goodbye. He doesn't have close friends, and no family. Who _would_ come to say goodbye, really? He doesn't mind. It gives him the chance to explore the huge room, running his fingers over varnished wood and tasting the fruit that's piled in the bowl on one of the tables. For the whole hour, driving the reason for being there out of his mind, he enjoys the opulence of his surroundings. When they come to get him, he's lying on his back on the bearskin rug, eyes closed, with a little smile.

* * *

Wren is still in shock when she's ushered into her room in the Justice Building. She doesn't have it in her to be excited by the decor. She's too preoccupied with the thought that she's going to die. At least she's regained control of her body, although she still feels oddly numb as she sits down on the plush velvet seat in the windowless room.

The arrival of her family is a relief, although she has mixed feelings about having to say goodbye to them. With them there, though, she has something to concentrate on that isn't just how utterly screwed she is. She doesn't quite manage to smile, but she tries, at least, looking up as the three of them file in. For a moment, they stand in awkward silence. None of them, except Martin, is talkative by nature, and even Martin seems to have run out of things to say. She wants him to go back to being his normal, know-it-all seven-year-old self, just to reassure her that the world isn't ending, but she can't say that, and he just stays standing there, with his thumb in his mouth, looking years younger than he is.

Eventually, Kiva, Wren's mother, clears her throat. "At least you got the disaster out of the way early on?" she suggests. Wren knows she's trying to be helpful. It doesn't work.

The silence goes on for a few moments longer. None of them seem to know what to say to each other. Even when they do start talking, it's brusque and uncertain.

"I, um," Wren says, at last, looking up at her family for what might well be the last time. "I think you've got to go. I mean, I've got lots of friends who'll want to say goodbye, and..." The lie doesn't trip off her tongue as easily as usual, and chokes somewhat in her throat, but she does manage to force a smile.

Now it's her father's turn to clear his throat. He hasn't said a word, hanging back behind his wife in his haggard, haunted kind of way. He looks twice his age. A man of few words, what he says to her at last is, if nothing else, to the point. "Good luck." A pause, where his throat seems to swell with everything he doesn't have the words for. "We love you," he says, at last. Then they're gone, leaving Wren to sit in her gilded cage and pretend she doesn't care that they're the only ones who come to see her.


	11. Goodbyes 2: Wipe The Tear From Your Eye

**A/N: **Just a reminder that voting is OPEN for this fic. If you need a reminder on the rules for voting for your favourite tribute, go back to chapter 9, which lays the system out. And, uh, I don't normally do the begging-for-reviews thing, but if you're still reading, even if you don't vote, I'd appreciate it if you'd let me know. With the big gap between updates, I feel like I might have lost a lot of readers, that's all.  
Thanks! And please do vote, by review or PM!  
Chapter title is from "Goodbye-ee", a popular WWI song which I now can't stop singing. The things I do for you people!

* * *

**8 - Wipe The Tear, Baby Dear, From Your Eye-ee**

Teddy knows several of the Peacekeepers through his mother, who works with them. Unsurprisingly, she's not among the cadre who escort him and Yaraminda into the District Seven Justice Building, but that doesn't stop him smiling and chatting with the Peacekeepers he recognises under their visors. Although they're more brusque than usual with him, they do chat back, which only seems to make Yaraminda glare at him harder. There's real hate in her eyes, and despite himself, Teddy is incredibly relieved to be ushered into his own room, away from her poisonous looks.

His mother has described the Justice Building to him before, but seeing it in real life is still breathtaking. He looks around the decorated room, and all he can think is how amazing it would be as a theatre. The high ceilings give good acoustics, he realises, and he's singing scales up to the beams, distracting himself with that, when his parents walk in. Delilah is still in her Peacekeeper uniform, although Teddy assumes she's been relieved from duty; Brayddhen looks harried and tired, his shirt rolled up to the elbows as always. Looking at them, Teddy feels a sudden rush of affection for his adopted parents. All he manages to say, though, is "...Grass. You'll look after Grass, right?"

The two of them exchange looks. Delilah's face is unreadable, but Brayddhen looks broken, like he might collapse any moment. "Yeah," he says, clearing his throat. "Yeah. We'll look after Grass."

Teddy lets out a long, relieved breath. Grass, his cat, is very dear to him. He'd hate to think that his leaving would mean Grass got neglected. "That's okay, then."

* * *

Yaraminda doesn't have time for the glorious architecture of the Justice Building, and even if she did, she wouldn't like it. It's all form, and no function; a Capitol building, even if it is in District Seven. She hates the pomp and circumstance surrounding it, and although she _does_ acknowledge that a velvet seat is much softer than a wooden one, that doesn't mean she wants to be there.

What she wants, more than anything, is her family. Although she'd never admit it, what she _really_ wants is to have her parents back, even if only for a few moments, to hug her close and tell her everything will be all right. But she's made her commitment, and she has to stick with it. That means she has to be the parent here, the responsible one, the one who doesn't let her fear show. When her family does arrive, she's sitting in the velvet chair, legs akimbo, trying to look as relaxed as if she was sitting by the fire at home.

Bushel, unsurprisingly, is in tears – she's the only one of them who cries so easily, even if she should be old enough to know better - and clinging onto the hand of their elder sister Maple, who looks like she's making as much effort to seem normal as Yaraminda is. Their brother Axel, the youngest, is holding Maple's other hand, but although he looks horribly solemn, he isn't crying. Yaraminda stands up as they come in, moving to hug Maple, then kneeling down to pull Bushel and Axel close. _For them. Just remember, you're doing this for them._

"Got you this," Axel says, after a moment, digging in his pocket to pull out a pinecone. "From the woods. I ran and got it when you volunteered, so's you've got a good token."

She smiles, taking the pinecone, and puts it to one side so she can pull him into another long hug. That makes Bushel pout more than ever, so then Yaraminda has to hug _her_ again, too, and then there are more hugs, and more, while the lump in her throat continues to grow. At last, she straightens up to fall into Maple's arms, letting herself relax ever so slightly as she's held by the closest thing to a mother she has. Maple strokes her back and whispers to her that it'll be okay, in a choked voice which says she's scared it won't be.

"Look after them, okay?" Yaraminda says, as the Peacekeepers open the door to escort the family out. "Axel, Bushel, don't you fret, you hear? I'll be back before you know it, and then everything'll be better. Just wait and see."

And then she's left alone, in the too-fancy room, to turn the pinecone over in her hands and fight against her tears. _You're doing it for them. Remember that, and it'll be okay_.

* * *

The District Eight Justice Building is hung with tapestries and silk wall hangings, making the vast corridors feel almost tent-like. The fabric rustles softly as Clark and Lacey are led to their rooms, and they deaden all the sounds, so even the Peacekeepers' booted feet hardly echo. It feels strange and otherworldly; it's hard to connect the finely-woven fabrics with the noisy, dirty, dangerous factories where they must have been made.

Clark is ushered into a room which is so softly carpeted that his feet don't make any noise _to_ echo, even if the walls weren't just as insulated by hangings here as in the hallway. At last, the Peacekeepers leave him, and he can relax out of his persona of a stupid, scared kid. He picks it back up, briefly, when the door opens, but lets the facade drop again as soon as he's left alone with his brothers.

"You've got the strategy underway, then?" Sam says, almost as soon as the Peacekeepers have left.

Clark nods briskly. "Stupid and laughable. Got it." There's a brief pause. "I'm scared. What am I going to do?"

"Stick to the plan." Sam isn't smiling, but there's a confidence to his voice that Clark envies. He wonders whether Sam would be so confident if it was him in this position. Then again, he probably would – after all, it's Sam who steals Peacekeepers' clothes and shuts of the electric fence. It's Sam who got all the courage, not to mention the brains. "Just stick to the plan, and let them kill each other." Reaching out, he squeezes Clark's shoulder. "You got this."

"I'm sure you'll be all right," Emmett adds, although he doesn't sound very sure at all. He shifts from foot to foot where he stands, his arm around their mother, who looks overcome by the situation. He's not the most comfortable with physical contact, but he pulls away from her and gives Clark a brief hug anyway, and an awkward clap on the back. His worry is palpable. "Don't get yourself into trouble. Just... do what your mentor tells you. Keep your head down. Look after yourself, all right?"

If he was Sam, Clark would probably make a snarky reply to that. But, while Sam may be his twin, they're far from the same; Clark isn't good at pretending, and he can't pretend that he's not affected by all this. Emmett might be a bit laissez-faire as a caretaker, but he's still Clark's family, and that matters. It means it hurts to see him worry. It means it hurts to say goodbye.

* * *

Almost the worst thing, now the initial shock of being Reaped has passed, is seeing Lyle helped into the room. Lacey knows he wouldn't want to let her go without saying goodbye, but she also knows it can't be good for him to be out of bed. He looks even worse than he did when she left the house that morning; his once-bright eyes are sunken and shadowed, his skin's taken on a greyish pallor, and he's all but carried into the room by their parents. Lacey gets up as they're ushered in, forcing a smile, and hurries over to help Lyle onto one of the velvet-upholstered chairs.

"It's so..." he starts, looking open-mouthed around the lavish room, then trails off. His bony fingers stroke over the velvet seat, but his eyes drop to his lap, and his look of wonder is short-lived. "You're going to be okay, right?" he asks quietly, and has to break off to cough. "Lacey?"

She bites the inside of her cheek before replying, her arm going around his shoulders. "'Course I am," she tells him brightly. "You know me. I'm brilliant. I'm gonna be brilliant. I'll be back before you know it, and then we'll move into Victor's Village and get you a decent doctor, and everything's gonna be better." Seeing the trusting look he gives her, she just hopes that's true.

Lyle doesn't stay long. Their father, his usual smile decidedly strained, lifts him up in his arms and carries him out after ten minutes, leaving Lacey with her mother for the last few moments before the Peacekeepers return.

"You just look after yourself," Calico tells her, brisk as always, and Lacey feels a rush of love for her mother, who always has advice for every situation. "Don't antagonise any of the others, don't get yourself into fights you can't win, and just remember, your mentor knows what's best for you. You do what he says, you hear me?"

"Gotcha." It's wearying, keeping up the smile. Lacey's relieved when she can hug her mother close and let it fade a little, where her mum can't see. "Look after Lyle, okay, Mom? Don't let him worry about me. I've got this."

There are tears in her mother's eyes as she pulls back; embarrassed by them, Lacey pretends not to see them. They bid each other another farewell, quietly but without breaking down, as Calico is led out of the room.

Next comes Lana, Lacey's friend from school, who talks even more than usual and leaves with a tight hug which leaves Lacey breathless. After that, Cotton, her neighbour, who's more subdued than usual but still manages to crack a few jokes and leave her smiling. There are more people Lacey wants to see – schoolfriends, neighbours, half the District seems to be made up of people she'll miss. An hour isn't long enough, and they won't let enough people in. Maybe that's for the best, though. It gives her a little breathing space before she has to head to the station, time to clamp down on her feelings and regain her confidence.

_Never let them see you cry_.

* * *

The Justice Building in Nine is all gilt and silver, and so dazzling that both tributes have to screw up their eyes as they walk in the doors. As they are escorted the short distance to their separate rooms, Daisy looks up at Bernard, her eyes still pink from crying, and gives him a little smile, reaching up to touch his hand. "Don't worry," she tells him, her high voice echoing around the corridor. "You'll be okay."

He knows that's not true, but he appreciates the gesture, and wishes he knew how to return it. Perhaps luckily, he's not given the chance, as the Peacekeepers separate them into their rooms for goodbyes.

Bernard doesn't have family to come and visit him. In a way, he's glad about that. He dreads emotional scenes, and has always felt bad for the tributes who have to have tearful goodbyes from their parents. He isn't spared the whole process, though. There's still Rebecca and Ian to deal with.

To his surprise, although his friends have presumably come from the Reaping together and although neither of them have families to deal with either, they're shown in separately. Rebecca comes first, looking tired and sad; her neatly-tied hair has come loose around her face, and she fidgets a little as the Peacekeepers show her in. She's resilient, though – even more than most of the orphans, she's good at taking what life throws her way. She wishes Bernard good luck, and they talk for a few minutes; he's reassured, despite himself, by the fact that her sarcastic, dry wit goes on. He's thrown off-guard, though, when she shoots a glance back at the closed door and says, "You going to tell Ian?"

"Tell him what?" Bernard isn't a good enough liar to pretend he doesn't know what she's talking about, though. Rebecca rolls her eyes.

"There's never going to be a better time, Bernard," she points out, raising her eyebrows. "What's the worst that can happen?"

Theoretically, Bernard knows she's right. In practice, when she leaves and Ian is escorted in, brown-eyed and soft-featured and perfect, Bernard knows immediately that he can't do it. Maybe there _is_ never going to be a better time to tell Ian how he feels. On the other hand, when he's about to leave forever and die horribly in front of the cameras, maybe there's never been a worse time. If there was a chance, he has a sick feeling he's already missed it.

So he talks mutedly with Ian, stumbling for the words, unable to explain why it hurts so much to say goodbye, and when Ian hugs him quickly and the Peacekeepers lead him out, that's when Bernard Stiles starts to cry.

* * *

Daisy's hardly settled into the plush room when her mother sweeps in, rushing past the Peacekeepers to pull her little girl into a tight hug. She's clearly beside herself with worry, all but hyperventilating as she looks down at Daisy, wiping her eyes with the sleeve of her dress. "Oh, Daisy! When they called your name, I... I didn't know what to do, what to think. My poor little girl!" And then Daisy's enveloped in another hug, her mother sobbing quietly. Daisy doesn't mind how tight her mother's hug is – in fact, she's glad for the support – but she hates seeing her mother so upset. It makes her think, queasily, of how horrible it will be for her parents if she doesn't come back.

It's a long time before she disentangles from her mother long enough to hug her father. He leans down to wrap his arms around her, pressing a kiss to her forehead. Although he looks a little pale, beside his wife he looks positively calm. "I'm proud of you," he tells her, softly, pushing her hair back away from her face and giving her a little smile. "I know you'll do well, Daisy. You're a brave girl – _our_ brave girl – and you're smart, and..." He shifts slightly, his smile wavering, and his worry shows through in his clear green eyes. "Just come back to us safe, all right?"

"I will, Daddy," Daisy assures him, and hugs him again, her head pressed against his stomach. She feels like crying again, but she knows he wants her to stay strong, so she manages to push it back.

"We're proud of you," he repeats, gently, as the Peacekeepers open the door and beckon the two adults out. "No matter what, we'll always be proud of you."

Daisy's left alone for a few moments more – long enough that she starts to wonder whether anyone else is coming – before her best friend Rue bursts in, flushed and breathing heavily. "I ran home to get you this," she explains through gasps, holding out Daisy's favourite bracelet. It's a charm bracelet, with three charms on it – one for Dad, one for Mom, and one for Rue. Daisy takes it with a grateful smile, slipping it on, and hugs Rue tight. There are tears, on both sides, but Daisy feels stronger for her father's confidence, and some of that passes on to Rue. When Rue leaves, unwillingly and with a long backwards glance, they're both smiling. Daisy fingers the charms on her bracelet, takes a deep breath, and smiles.

How bad can it be?

* * *

This isn't so bad, Lysander reminds himself as they're escorted into the vast Justice Building and into the rooms where they'll be held for the next hour. The rooms are lavish, even compared to Emily's house in the Victor's Village, but he doesn't pay his surroundings much attention, flopping down on a chaise lounge and stretching out. He had to get up earlier than he wanted for the Reapings, so it's pleasant to be able to relax for a few moments before his family is shown in. Then, of course, it all gets a little chaotic, with his parents and sister pressing in on each side, his father distant and stoic as always, his mother distracted by the luxury of the room and by her own upset. His sister Bella hugs him tight, not laughing for once, and begs him to be careful.

"I'll be fine," he assures them, more than once. "I've got training, right? And Jareth'll look after me. I'll be fine."

Eventually, it seems to sink in. His mother, having said her goodbyes, goes to admire the inlaid table by the chaise lounge; Bella chats with him, sounding more and more like her usual jokey self, until they're called away by the Peacekeepers. As they leave, his father clasps Lysander's hand - an adult gesture, man to man – and nods to him, wordless. Lysander is left alone again, long enough to sit back down and take a drink from the pitcher on the inlaid table, before Mark appears. Mark seems to have control of himself – he knows Lysander, knows he's practically a Career – and their goodbyes are remarkably relaxed. Then, of course, there's Emily.

She kisses him before she says anything. It's a long kiss, with a lot of feeling in it; after a moment, she pulls back, opens her mouth to speak, then shakes her head and kisses him again. Lysander smiles, kissing her back, his predicament forgotten for now.

"You'll be all right, won't you?" She sounds tremulous, worried, even though she's been around for all his training.

"Sure," he tells her, resting his forehead against hers. "I've got your dad to take care of me, haven't I?"

Her laugh's a little watery, but it's still a laugh. "He'd better take care of you, or I'm never talking to him again!" she declares, jutting her jaw out. "Just in case, though..." She presses something into his hand, closing her eyes. "I made you this. So you don't forget me while you're out there. And for luck, you know?"

"Sure," he repeats, putting the object in his pocket without looking at it, and kisses her again. It's not until she's gone that he looks at what she's given him; a woven rawhide bracelet, just the right size for his wrist. His token. He smiles a little, running his thumb over the plaited band, and settles back onto the chaise lounge with a little sigh.

* * *

Lailani is more impressed by the Justice Building than her District partner, not being accustomed to anything richer than her family's ranch. At the same time, it scares her breathless; although the room she's shown into is big, it's still an enclosed space, and when the door is closed on her, her heart starts to pound faster. She tries to distract herself with the softness of the cushions and the thickness of the carpet, but she's still profoundly grateful when the door opens and her family are allowed in to distract her from being so trapped.

There's none of the usual tension between her and her brothers, although when they go to hug her she tries to fight them off with a yelp of "Gerroffme!" – their need to protect their little sister seems to have overtaken their need to tease and annoy her. Her father, too, is teary-eyed and prone to hugs today, which she suffers through gamely. Her mother's a little easier to deal with, and stays out of the hugging, telling Lailani she's proud of how well she reacted to the Reaping, that she knows she'll do well. Lailani rolls her eyes, but secretly, she's glad for the support her family gives, and the love they're showing her in their different ways. When they leave, it wrenches at her heart. Even if she lives through this, she thinks sadly, she'll miss them while she's gone.

Cassidy helps distract her from those thoughts, when he's there. He talks with his usual authority on all the tricks he's heard are good for the Games, and makes her laugh with suggestions for pranks she can pull on the other tributes. When he's gone, though, and when her other best friend, Rohan, has come and gone as well, she feels very lonely indeed. The walls of the beautiful room are pushing in on her, and she feels a familiar upswell of resentment. Why should she have to be torn away from the people she cares about so much? Why is _she_ being punished for a rebellion she wasn't even alive for? Who's sick enough to find all this a source of entertainment?

She knows, of course.

"I _hate_ them," she mutters, into the glorious, empty room. "I hate them all."

* * *

District Eleven, so poor and strictly-run, doesn't have any other buildings which even approach the Capitolesque glory of the Justice Building. Sift, who until now has been extremely closed-off and unreadable, can't hide her amazement at the riches of the building, the fabrics and stones she's never even seen before. Husk, on the other hand, doesn't care. His arms are still pinned to his side by two burly Peacekeepers, who all but carry him to the room and close the door on him quickly before he can cause any more trouble.

By way of punishment for his onstage attack on Steffi, Husk's visits are cut short. A Peacekeeper accompanies his family in, standing by the door with her hand almost nonchalantly on her gun, and remains in the room after the door is closed. It's clear they're not taking any chances. Husk hates them even more for that.

His mother and his sister fuss about the scene he caused at the Reaping, by turns berating him and smothering him with affection. His father, by contrast, seems much calmer, if still upset.

"You come home," he tells Husk, with a glance at the impassive Peacekeeper by the door before he meets his son's eyes again. "Promise me?"

Husk nods. "Promise," he agrees.

"That's long enough," the Peacekeeper cuts in, her hand still on her gun as she ushers the family out. When they're gone, she stands back against the door, watching Husk, expressionless behind her visor. He glares at her, wondering what she'd look like with her hateful uniform set on fire, her skin bubbling from the heat. That thought tides him over for the twenty minutes before they let in his other visitors, Hull and Till.

Hull, who hates the Peacekeepers as much as Husk does, gives a vicious look to the Peacekeeper in the room, but helps Till in without comment. Till's cane taps on the tiled floor as he feels his way towards Husk. With Till's blindness, it's hard to tell whether he's even aware of the Peacekeeper, but Husk suspects he is; Till tends to know more than he lets on.

With the Peacekeeper there, and ostentatiously checking her watch, it's hard to discuss the things they want to. Hull tries to turn the conversation to the vitriol bubbling just under the surface, but Till shushes him quickly and goes back to advising Husk to keep his head down and not cause trouble. In the end, almost the only conversation Husk gets with Hull is in the moment, right before the two older boys are led out, when Hull presses the empty matchbox into his hand, leans in close, and whispers "_Burn them all_."

* * *

Despite her paralysing fear, Sift can't help marvelling at the surroundings she finds herself in. She's never felt anything as soft as the velvet seat she sinks into, or seen anything as delicate as the plasterwork on the ceiling, and she never even _imagined_ that someone would make a floor so beautiful just for people to walk on. Sitting there stroking her dark, bony fingers over the lush green velvet, she wonders idly how much the furnishings in just this one room might be sold for, if you could find a buyer. It's hard to resist the urge to smuggle out something – a gold candlestick, a tiny china vase – and it's only the recollection that she's going somewhere even richer that stops her.

Unlike Husk, she's not supervised – of course, unlike Husk, she hasn't given them any reason to assume she's a troublemaker. That doesn't matter so much to her when it's her parents who come to say goodbye, spending a good ten minutes in almost unbroken silence, but it matters a lot when her next visitor arrives, because Sift doesn't want anyone else around when she says goodbye to Coppice.

As always, she's overwhelmed by Coppice's presence, now more than ever. Coppice is braver than her, and more beautiful, with long eyelashes and a fuzz of brown hair which Sift loves to run her fingers over. She runs her fingers over Coppice's hair now, pulling the smaller girl in for a kiss, and feels the burn of tears in her throat.

"When you come back to me," Coppice whispers, pulling away and resting her head against Sift's bony chest, "when you come back to me, promise me you won't have forgotten me. Promise we can go back to this, when you're back."

"You know I can't promise that." It stings in her throat, and she's shaking as she says it. The tears are spilling down her cheekbones, smearing the ugly knot of scar tissue on her face, dripping onto Coppice's short curls. "I'm not _coming_ back, Coppice. I'm going to die."

"Don't say that!" Now Coppice is crying too, reaching up to take Sift's face in both her hands. "Don't ever say that! I can't lose you!" She breathes in, shakily, her fingertips tracing down Sift's scraggly neck. "I can't lose you," she repeats, miserably. "I'm not going to lose you. We're going to last this thing out, you and me. Hold out your hand."

Sift is trained to obedience by the harsh life of Eleven, but that isn't why she holds out her hand. She does it because this is Coppice, and she trusts Coppice more than anyone. With a little sob, Coppice slips a ring onto her finger - a smooth, plain applewood ring – and kisses her palm.

"It's too big," Sift says, with a choked little laugh, as the ring slides almost off her finger, and she shifts it to her thumb, trying to pull herself under control. She has to look good for the cameras, after all. But it's hard, knowing Coppice is right here and never will be again. Quietly, hoarsely, she says the words she's never quite managed before. "I love you."

* * *

It's not often the Justice Building in Twelve gets to see two tributes who are quite so all right with being there. Piper gazes around with a grin spreading ear to ear, staring wonderstruck at the high, wrought-iron ceilings and stained-glass windows, while Ash marches along with his hands in his pockets. He sticks his chest out as he follows the Peacekeepers, imitating their easy manner and mimicking one Peacekeeper in particular, a big man with a barrel chest who is, he's happy to find, one of the Peacekeepers conducting him to his room.

When the rest of the Ember family are shown in, Ash is a little frustrated to find them all fussing about him; his big sister Lorelei and his parents, particularly, seem determined to focus on the little things like the possibility he might not come back. It's much easier to talk to Spark and Jacquie, his other two sisters, who are much more excited – as he is – by the prospect of him going to the Capitol and coming back famous and rich.

"_And_," he finishes, with a flourish, "when I win, I'll never have to go down the mines! And I'm _going_ to win, Lorelei, stop looking like that! I'll be back in time for your wedding, easy."

She doesn't seem convinced, and she and Ash's parents are still dabbing at their eyes when they leave, but Ash isn't about to let that wear him down. Instead, he settles back on the velvet couch, swinging his feet so his heels knock against the wooden base, and relaxes until Jeromy, his best friend, is shown in. Seeing how uncertain Jeromy looks, Ash launches back into his spiel about how awesome the Games are going to be. Jeromy just pulls a face.

"As long as you don't do anything stupid," he mutters.

Affronted, Ash folds his arms. "I don't _ever_ do anything stupid!"

* * *

Piper's struck up a conversation with one of the Peacekeepers, and is quite sad when he tells her, gently but firmly, that he has to stay outside the room while she says her goodbyes. She pouts briefly, but is quickly cheered up again by the lushness of her surroundings. She's never seen anything like it, and she loves the room she's left in, with its velvet couch and chairs and a carpet that's deeper and softer than she's ever seen. She almost wishes that she could stay here instead of in the Capitol – but then she remembers, it's the _Capitol_ she's going to, and it probably makes this room look like ass.

She bounds over to her mother when the door opens, like a particularly exciteable puppy, grinning from ear to ear. "Isn't this _awesome_?"

Her mother, who's had seventeen years to get used to the fact that _everything_ is awesome to Piper, nods rather unconvincingly. "Awesome is... one word for it," she agrees, guardedly. "Just take care, all right, Piper? You're all I have. Don't go throwing that away."

That brings Piper up short for a moment. There's a mournful look in her mother's eyes that she's not quite cheery enough to ignore, and it starts to sink in that this is actually goodbye, for who knows how long. She pulls her mother into a hug, not caring if she messes up her mother's neat dress, and looks up at her.

"Mum, I'll be fine. And I get to go to the Capitol, and meet lots of new people, and be _famous_. It's _cool_."

"Cool." Mrs Rhuste shakes her head, her voice edged with bitterness. "One more year. One more year, and you would have been safe. But, yes, it's _cool_."

"Yeah." Piper smiles, reassuringly, letting go of her mother. "Yeah, that's right. It's totally cool."


	12. Train Rides: Inaction is Atrophy

**A/N:** Updaaaate! Look at me, with my updating on time! Anyway, reminding you that voting is a thing, and you should do it. Enjoy the chapter!

* * *

**9 - Inaction is Atrophy**

Platinum and Nessa board the train together, but they could hardly look more different. Nessa poses for the cameras at the station, smiling a bright white smile and putting her everything into giving the right look to her departure; Platinum, by contrast, looks incredibly disinterested. He might as well be a million miles from the cameras trained on him. When they board the train, though, their mentors Closs and Azure ushering them inside as Flavia Honeydell gives a final soundbite to the cameras, Nessa's smile falls off her face at once and she looks just as unimpressed as Platinum.

Platinum nods to her as the train doors slide closed and the train jolts into movement. Although District One is a wealthy place and they're used to luxury, neither of them has been on a train before, certainly not to the Capitol. Platinum shows his customary disdain for everything going on around him, but as Flavia fusses after them to show them to their rooms, Nessa catches glances out of the window, enjoying the feeling of the world rushing by around her.

As the journey from One is the shortest, their rooms aren't designed for sleeping; no beds, just a bathroom and a kind of lounge, with sinfully comfortable sofas and beautiful fittings. They eat lunch together, gauging each other from opposite sides of the table, and over the rich food, Closs and Azure begin to question their tributes. The mentors are as different as the tributes; Closs, a Victor from a good twenty years ago, is solid and rugged, and his questions are sharp, direct, and without warmth. By contrast, Azure, who won the Games only three years ago, is wiry and slender, with an easy laugh that lights up her face without reaching her eyes. She's only nineteen, and dwarfed by her older compatriot, but her questions show the wit and sharp intelligence that helped her win her Games. Azure and Closs do most of the talking, while Platinum and Nessa answer in short, to-the-point sentences. Platinum offers that his best weapon is the sword, while Nessa obligingly demonstrates some of her gymnastic skills to applause from Flavia and Azure. After a couple of hours of this, on Flavia's cheery recommendation, the tributes withdraw to their own rooms to rest before their arrival.

Platinum sits slumped in his rooms, eyes closed, considering what he's learnt from the last few hours. He has no regrets about volunteering, and considers his District partner a valuable asset. He's seen her fighting before, in training, and is glad to see that she's not daunted by the cameras either. For now, she's not his competition but his ally, and it's good that she can reach a reasonably high standard.

Nessa watches out of the window, lying full-length on her sofa, as the train whizzes on to the edges of the District, and the shimmering heights of the Capitol begin to come into view. Trepidation is mounting in her gut. She doesn't like what the glittering city represents, and yet it's beautiful, threatening to distract her from what's important. Turning her face away, she focuses on what she has to; the Games ahead. She can't afford to be complacent. Losing means more than just death – it means _failure_.

* * *

Kassian Trove, the Escort for Two, heads into the train before the tributes, with only a brief – but dazzling – smile for the cameras. After him come the mentors, Iona and Caius, who pose with the teenagers for a moment before leaving Avius and Brooke to field the media by themselves. In fairness to them, both tributes seem to manage the attention well. Brooke is very photogenic, cold-eyed and serious but still pretty, and Avius' strong build and vicious smile mark him out as a contender. It's a few moments of flashing cameras and shouts for attention before the two of them withdraw into the train, their studied neutrality hiding Brooke's nervousness as well as Avius' boredom.

They have a few hours to kill, but Kassian prevents them taking the time to get to know each other, swooping in to congratulate them again. His nails, Avius notices with some scorn, are long and pointed, painted in a strange iridescent mixture of green and violet. Brooke hardly notices the nails, or indeed Kassian, because she's thinking of other things – things like how they're heading to the Capitol, even now, how her journey's started. She's only really brought back to reality when Caius, her mentor, starts to prod and poke her, testing her strength and making all her bruises ache. He does this with a strange detachment, like he really doesn't care.

Iona, meanwhile – the older of the two mentors, a severe-looking woman with her black hair cut close to her scalp – is looking Avius up and down, questioning him in low, sharp tones. He answers with something of a sneer in his voice, disdainful of her feeling the need to ask what his strengths are. His strengths, he tells her, are killing. That's all that matters.

At that, Iona exchanges a look with Caius and withdraws a little, beckoning him away. Avius and Brooke are left alone, while Kassian sits to one side casually sipping his wine.

"Guess we're allies, then," Brooke says, almost casually, after a moment.

The smile Avius gives her chills her blood. "Guess we are. For now."

* * *

Letitia, Tikker, and Zoe are already seated around the table when Singe and Silk make their way onto the train, rolling with the movement as it sets off. The delicate crockery in the dining room sings and rings as the train starts to move, like a symphony of tiny china bells. Both the tributes look around in unfeigned amazement at the train carriage which is even more richly furnished than the Justice Building. Out of the windows, the factories of Three rush by.

Tikker and Zoe don't talk much over the meal they all share. Both mentors seem kind of zoned out, staring at their hands or out of the window. They're both in their mid-twenties, but although Singe and Silk know that – they watched their Games, after all, and have seen them onstage every year - it wouldn't be obvious otherwise. Both women look much older. Tikker has a nervous twitch, and spills her wine in her lap twice in the course of the meal; Zoe's eyes are distant and sad, and when she does talk, her tone is melancholy. Singe sits hunched in her chair, eyes on her food, too shy to talk, while Letitia babbles brightly on about how exciting it all is and how she's sure they'll look just _lovely_ after a few hours with the stylists.

Silk, for his part, is impatient with all his fellow travellers. He doesn't show it – he's still putting on the helpless act around Singe, at least until he knows her enough to know whether he can trust her – but dislike is seething not far under the surface. Tikker and Zoe aren't so much the problem, but Letitia is a part of the hated Capitol, and everything he's seen of Singe suggests she _wants_ to be, which is almost worse. When he's finished eating, he slips away to his own room as soon as possible, unnoticed. He's good at that. In his room, on the comfortable bed which is softer than anything he's ever known, he falls asleep almost immediately.

Singe has more difficulty extricating herself from Letitia's conversation. She's too awkward to make her excuses, too afraid of being called back to just leave. Part of her wants to talk to Letitia in return, to try and steer the conversation towards Gamemaking and mechanics; the same part of her wants to ask Zoe and Tikker what it was like being inside the Games she's watched on repeat her whole childhood. But she daren't, and so she sits in awkward silence, hunched in her chair, for the whole interminable ride.

When they arrive in the Capitol, it's dark, but you wouldn't know it. The city blazes with light, and as Letitia goes to fetch Silk, Singe's heart leaps in her chest. The Capitol! Home of the Games! Maybe here, she thinks, maybe here she can feel at home.

* * *

At the station in Four, James poses and smiles for the cameras, blows kisses to female photographers, laughs and flexes and flirts outrageously. It makes it easy for Storm to slip onto the train with minimum fuss, but a little harder for Claretta Kingfisher, who eventually has to get back onto the station to tug James onto the train, her smile dazzlingly professional even as her long nails dig into his arm. He gives one final thumbs-up to the cameras, grinning, as the doors close and the train starts moving.

Claretta shows them to their rooms and tells them to be at the dining table in half an hour. When they're left alone, Storm turns to James in the corridor between their rooms, frowning. "How can you do that?" He baffles her with his cheerful approach to the whole thing, his brightness and flirting. Doesn't he realise they're trying to kill him?

James just shrugs, giving her a wink and a grin. "You're taking this way too seriously," he tells her. "You shouldn't let it get you down. You look so pretty, smiling's got to suit you." The flirting's almost a reflex, but the sentiment's real; he doesn't want to see her so miserable. Aside from anything else, it makes it harder for him to relax around her.

Storm's look is flat. "Thanks for your input," she says politely, "but the Games already killed my sister and brother, or didn't you know that? I don't think I'm taking it too seriously. I... They're trying to _kill_ us, James. I'm sorry, but you need to realise that."

Something uncertain flickers across James' face for a moment, and he frowns. "See, that's you looking at the negative again. We'll be fine. And just think about what it'll be like in the Capitol! Everyone wanting you, everyone wanting to be you..."

_Nobody wants to be you,_ Storm thinks. _They just want to watch you bleed_. But she doesn't want to alienate James. She doesn't like making enemies at the best of times, and when it's somebody who she'll have to share the Arena with, she knows she can afford it even less. All she says out loud, with a tight little smile, is "I'm glad you're looking on the bright side. I think I'm going to get some rest now. See you at dinner."

"Looking forwards to it, babe." James tips her a cheery little salute and a wink, smiling after her as she heads into her own chambers. Standing in the corridor on his own, though, his smile fades a little. He doesn't want to think about the stuff she's brought up, the possibility that there's more to being a tribute than just the Capitol girls. _Maybe she's right_ crosses his mind for a moment. Then, pulling a face, he shakes it off and goes to flirt with Claretta.

* * *

The District Five tributes have to be shepherded into place at the station, and both of them almost collapse when they're ushered onto the train and the doors close between them and the cameras. Inside the train, as it judders once and starts moving, Auralio Goldfeather sweeps his arms around both tributes' shoulders, steering them through the gently rocking train to their quarters. "We'll be in the Capitol early tomorrow morning," he tells them, all business now he's away from the cameras. "Dinner is at seven. Your mentors will want to come and meet you before then, so wash yourselves up, get yourselves ready, take any clothes you want to out of your rooms, they'll knock on your doors in about half an hour. I'll see you at dinner." Unslinging his arms from their shoulders, he steps back and indicates their rooms. "If you need anything, just ask. And no tantrums, no fighting, no crying if you can help it. Calm is always best." And then he's gone, in a shimmer of golden hair and glittering skin.

Robyn and Jayden exchange looks, shyly, from under their eyelashes, and then turn away from each other, vanishing into their own rooms. Despite Auralio's advice, Jayden has barely got to the bathroom to wash his face when the memory of his parents hits him like a blade and he chokes on his own fear, starting to cry again. He continues to cry, in little bursts, while he washes his face and hands, brushes his hair, leafs through the loose clothes sitting ready in the wardrobe. He's looking for somewhere safe to keep his scrap of paper when Simeon comes in. Jayden knows Simeon, vaguely, as a visitor to the Mayor's house; the mentor of the thirty-eighth Games, a short, stocky man in his mid-forties, whose heavy red eyebrows shadow perpetually bloodshot eyes. Drink, morphling, or something else – nobody seems to know what his vice is, but something makes him pondorous and slow. He's still kindly enough, though, and he's gentle in his questioning, and when Jayden starts to cry again, tired and overwhelmed and trying his best to hide it, Simeon puts his arm around the little boy, staring over his head. "Don't fret," he says, slowly. "There's a whole District looking out for you."

Robyn doesn't have so much luck with her mentor. She's looked through the drawers and cupboards of her rooms, and decided she blends in best in what she's already wearing – it is her best clothes, after all – but when Graham comes in, blending in doesn't seem to be an option any more. He won't let her withdraw, as she wants to; he circles her, prodding and poking both physically and verbally, not letting her lapse into silence or stop to write things in her notebook. He looks her up and down and clearly finds her wanting, and when he finally leaves with a curt "We've got a lot of work to do," she could almost cry with relief. Then she remembers that this is the least of the prodding and poking she'll have to endure, and she flops onto the bed with her eyes closed, half-hoping she can sleep through the whole ugly business ahead of her.

* * *

Livvie is sulking, clearly unimpressed by her tributes this year. Isaac and Caitlin, the mentors, are sitting at their end of the table talking in undertones as though Wren and Joshua aren't even there. Both mentors seem to be completely unaware of their surroundings, with the hollow cheeks and greyish pallor of morphling addicts. The tributes are trying to keep their cool, but it's difficult to relax when the people their lives will depend on are obviously on a different plane of existence, and not in a good way.

So Wren and Joshua talk to each other instead, between mouthfuls of rich stew and soft cakes, their mouths still working on the food as they talk, both of them stuffing themselves silly and talking at the tops of their voices. Livvie turns her face away with an expression of disgust, but Wren and Joshua aren't looking.

"...So it was a prank, yeah, I'm not really like that," Wren insists, around a mouthful of bread and cheese better than anything she's ever tasted. "Just, you know, thought it'd be funny."

"Yeah, gotcha." A little rice spills out of Joshua's mouth, but he doesn't seem to care. "I thought it was pretty cool. I mean, the looks on their faces, right?" He mimics Livvie's expression when Wren froze, and is the only one who laughs, although Wren's smiling a little, too. "Wish I'd thought of it."

"You think?" she ventures, looking to and fro between the mentors and Livvie, who is sitting frozen in anger and frustration. Although she's aware they're not too impressed, and she knows she's lying about it being a prank, Wren is still happy to hear that somebody – even a twelve-year-old kid who laughs at his own jokes – thinks she's cool. Even with the horror that today's been, that's something. Swallowing her mouthful and reaching for the sparkling wine, she smiles at him. He seems okay, she thinks. If she has to spend the last weeks of her life with somebody, she's glad it's somebody who thinks she's cool. That counts for a lot.

* * *

Emalia, Anja and Sylvan all mill around Yaraminda, who sits slumped and stoic in one of the squishy armchairs, her legs apart and her face stonily expressionless. She's the first volunteer Seven has had in a long time, so it's no surprise that they're excited by her, but she's fed up with it already. She listens, but she doesn't speak, and although she eats half the food that's set out at dinnertime, wolfing it down as if she can never get enough, she disappears to her own room immediately afterwards, not letting Emalia's protests and cajoling stop her.

For different reasons, Teddy doesn't stay at the table long either. He's smiling faintly, because acting is easier than letting reality sink in, but he doesn't want to be around while the mentors and Escort fuss on about how wonderful it is to have a volunteer and how she might be a real contender. He has his limits, and it still stings that nobody would volunteer to save him.

He knocks on Yaraminda's door. When there's no answer, he knocks again. He's just raising his fist to knock a third time when she jerks the door open. She's showered and changed into a soft brown shirt and trousers which are too short for her, and her face looks thunderous, all the more so when she sees who it is. "What do you want?"

"We still need to watch the reruns," Teddy stammers, more than a little intimidated, then clears his throat and tries to imagine this is all a play, and there's no way she'll try to kill him. "And I, I wanted to talk to you."

Yaraminda considers this for a moment – not a very long moment – and then moves to close the door. "I don't want to talk to you, though. Go away."

"Why don't you like me?" It comes out plaintive and rather pathetic-sounding, but it's what Teddy came here to say. "What did I do to you?"

The door opens a crack further, and Yaraminda sticks her head out, looking down at him. "You looked at your family, kid? Leave me the hell alone. I'll come when the reruns are on." And the door slams closed, leaving Teddy to stand in the corridor, blinking. _My family?_ he thinks, blankly. _What about my family?_

* * *

It's strange to watch the Reapings from outside, knowing your name will be called, that your face will be one of those showing on screens all around Panem. Lacey and Clark sit in front of the big TV screen in the train carriage, with Netta perched delicately between them and their mentors on their other sides. Twine, a recent Victor who's only a little older than the tributes, sits on Clark's left, twisting her straw-coloured hair nervously around her finger, while on Lacey's right, Spinner sits with his arms crossed, all sharp elbows and harshly twisted mouth. None of them, to Lacey's discomfort, talk.

The Reapings play out on the screen, a blur of different Districts, glittering Escorts, the applause from the crowds and the fear from the tributes. Lacey is distracted by her sympathy for the other tributes, by her familiar confusion at the ones who volunteer to kill and be killed. Clark, for his part, is distracted by his stomach, which is churning unpleasantly from all the rich food he ate, but he still keeps a keen eye on the other tributes, trying to gauge them from their Reapings. Then Eight is on the screen, and both tributes experience a weird sense of deja vu, watching themselves react to their names being called. Again, Lacey smiles and swaggers up to the stage; again, Clark corrects Netta about his name (and, sitting between them, she looks just as scornful about it the second time around). They stand together, small on the screen, the scared little boy and the overconfident girl, and as the view changes and the voiceover announces District Nine, Lacey leans across Netta to tap Clark on the arm. "You okay now?" she mutters to him, with a little smile. "You looked scared up there."

Something like a scowl crosses Clark's face, and then something that's not really a smile. "Yeah, well, it's kinda scary" he murmurs back. "Shh, I'm watching." He's still trying to get the measure of his District partner, but now isn't the time for that. Now is his first chance to see what he's up against.

Nine. Ten. When Eleven comes up, and Husk Sarter punches the Escort in the stomach, Lacey covers her mouth with her hands, but although she feels bad about it, she can't help the snort of laughter which splutters out from underneath. The look Netta gives her could cut glass, but Spinner's mouth untwists a little, like he wants to laugh as well. Clark snorts, too, the first humour he's shown since his name was called. He figures it's probably safe. It's not like anyone important is watching.

* * *

Bernard's not used to having his own room. In the orphanage, he shares a dormitory. Right up until the reruns, he's spent the afternoon marvelling at the luxury of it, even if it's only for one night – not just his own room, but his own _suite_, full of new clothes and new furniture, everything clean and neat and perfect. He's stuffed to the gills from dinner, his stomach tying itself in knots, and by the time he sits down to watch the reruns, showered and brushed and dressed in soft clothes that are more comfortable than anything he's ever worn, he's so wrapped up between his nausea and his amazement at where he's found himself that he's almost forgotten about the Games and about Ian.

Daisy, too, has taken her mind off it. Now she's said goodbye to her parents and the worst part is, for now, over, she can spring back to her usual cheerful self. She's spent the last couple of hours talking to Lily, her mentor, who's friendly and cheerful, if in a brittle kind of way. She's changed into a clean dress, a beautiful white silk one, and sampled every dish on the table, tried to get to know the Capitolites on the train, kept her mind on how stunning the whole journey is. She's spent some time sitting by the window, watching the golden fields blur by.

But now the reruns are airing, and both tributes have to bring their minds back to the truth. By the time all the Reapings have aired, Bernard has to stumble off to throw up in the toilet, leaving Daisy alone with Lily, Belladonna, and Lucrezia.

"Well," Lucrezia says, after a moment, as the TV flicks off. "At least you weren't the _worst_."

"_I_ thought they were good!" Lily says encouragingly, with a smile for Daisy, and flicks her hair back over one shoulder. "They looked lovely. You looked lovely, sweetie," she repeats to Daisy, who smiles back at her. Belladonna sits cross-legged on the arm of the sofa and says nothing.

* * *

Lailani is fed up. She doesn't much like Avena, who's trilling and shallow and whose voice hurts Lailani's ears, and Marco, her mentor, is sitting in the corner with the liquor cabinet, not talking. The novelty of the train has worn off after hours of travelling through the vast plains of District Ten, and she ate too much. Lysander and Jareth, who've known each other forever as far as Lailani can tell, are chatting companionably in the corner of the carriage, and Lailani is already a little homesick. Cassidy would be able to think of a way to liven up the ride. Rohan would be company. Instead, she's stuck with a drunk, a shallow peacock of a woman, and two guys who won't include her. Irritably, she kicks rhythmically against the leg of the inlaid cherrywood table, ignoring Avena when she squeaks at her to _stop that, stop that right now!_

She hasn't had the chance to talk to Lysander since they got on the train, which is also annoying. If she's going to go into the Arena with him, she at least wants to know what she's up against. She knows him by sight – she's seen him around, at markets and passing by her ranch – but that doesn't really do it. She wants to know whether or not they can be allies, how far she can trust him. She wants to know just how much of an unfair advantage he's going to get from knowing his mentor, too.

Jareth certainly seems to think it's an advantage, although it seems like a burden on him, too. He's explained this to Lysander twice now, sighing as he sinks back into his cowhide chair. Emily, he repeats now for the third time, is never going to forgive him if Lysander doesn't win, so Lysander needs to win. Okay? And, for the third time, Lysander nods. Normally, he'd roll his eyes, but this is Jareth. He respects Jareth.

Even so, it's no overstatement to say that both tributes are bored as all hell when they finally head to bed, Lailani first, then Lysander. The Capitol lies ahead of them, though, and boredom is going to be the least of their problems. It's too bad neither of them are thinking that far ahead.

* * *

The ride from Eleven takes place in stiff, awkward silence. Steffi spends the whole time they're in the same room watching Husk as one might a wild animal, all but hiding behind the mentors. Stock and Chaff are transparently unsympathetic towards her, but Stock – who has responsibility for Husk – does tell him off at length for antagonising the Capitol so early in the game. She rants at him for a good ten minutes, in a slightly unhinged, shrill voice, her hands flying, before she lapses back into silence. When she comes back to it later, watching the reruns, all she says is "You _are_ going to regret that later on. Not a threat, by the way. But you are."

"Oh, let it go, Stock," Chaff says, around his whiskey, and shoves the older mentor with the stump of his arm. He's the only one in the carriage who seems willing to smile about the whole thing, and smile he does; when the silence is broken, it's Chaff breaking it. He laughs loud and long at his own jokes, maybe a little louder after he started on the whiskey, and pats Steffi on the stomach, winding her up by telling her all about the guy he knew once who dropped down dead from a punch to the gut, then bursting back into that loud, careless laughter. He tries to draw the tributes in on the joke, but he has no luck from either of them; Husk sits in silent, burning rage at the world, and Sift curls up in the corner, turning her ring on her thumb and staring out of the window. She stays sitting there long after Husk has gone to destroy his room (which he does quite efficiently, and the smashing and ripping from his end of the train goes on the whole time they're watching the reruns). She stays sitting there after Chaff has finished two bottles of whiskey and fallen asleep in his chair, and after Steffi and Stock have gone to bed. Long after everyone else is asleep, and the countryside passing by the window is shrouded in darkness, Sift stays curled up in her chair by the window, with stolen bread in the fine clothes she took from the wardrobe, turning Coppice's ring on her finger.

At last, she falls asleep too, still in the soft velvet chair, and the train whispers on into the night, towards the Capitol.

* * *

"Ash! Ash, come and look at this!" Piper all but bounces to the window as the train whizzes through the tunnel and out into the bright light beyond, and the Capitol's revealed. She's seen it on TV, of course, but never like this, not _real_. It seems as out-of-this-world as the silk shirt and soft trousers she's wearing, or the shower she had this morning that brushed her hair for her. "You gotta look at this!"

"I'm lookin', all right?" Ash is at the next window, dragging a chair over so he can stand on it to stare out at the Capitol. His words might be belligerent, but his tone isn't; the two have cemented a kind of friendship overnight, and although Piper's so much brighter and friendlier than he is, she reminds him of his sisters enough that he can't _not_ like her.

He can't help being amazed by the Capitol, either, even though he isn't usually bothered about things like that. The glittering buildings, the transports zipping to and fro, everything about it is bright and high-tech and a million miles from anything in Twelve. He and Piper stare out of the window, rapt, for a good minute as the train draws closer, then Piper springs away again. "I'm gonna go and get Haymitch! He ought to see this, too!" she enthuses, forgetting for the moment that he's seen it at least three times before, and bounds off down the train, her cry of "_Haaaaaaymitch!_" trailing after her.


	13. Remaking: So Easily Gilt With Romance

**A/N:** Sorry for the late update. Been ill. Hopefully this chapter will make up for it!  
I'll do the chariot rides themselves next chapter. Also, I decided to reverse the order of the Districts, since I suspect the tributes who are last end up being given a raw deal, since I'm tired of writing by then and you may be tired of reading. So, reverse-order for the sake of fairness.  
I hope you like the chapter! Remember to vote!

**10 - So Easily Gilt With Romance**

Ash went into the Remake Center happy enough to be there, but five minutes after meeting his prep team, he's given his hairdresser a black eye and is arguing loudly with Cilla, an unnaturally thin Capitolite with dazzlingly white hair who, despite her frail appearance, gives as good as she gets, her voice rising shrilly. "I'm telling you, you need to lie down and let Julius do your nails!"

"Make me!" Ash retorts, sticking his tongue out at her. "I don't need stupid make-up and stupid scrubs and stupid... whatever that is! I'm a _guy_!"

"You're a _tribute_!" Cilla snaps back, wagging her finger chidingly at him. "Now lie back down and let us do our jobs!"

* * *

In the next room, Piper chats cheerfully to her own prep team, the three Capitol women fussing around her like brightly-coloured birds. Their names, Piper found out the second she bounded into the room, are Sia, Tulla, and Varys, and while Sia and Tulla are busy discussing the long job ahead of them, Varys – the youngest – seems more than happy to talk to Piper.

"Oh, it'll be _wonderful_," she enthuses, clapping her green-tinted hands together and smiling even wider than Piper. "You're going to look _amazing_, just _beautiful_! We just need to clean you down a bit... a lot... and fix your teeth, and get rid of all that ugly body hair, and then I get to style your hair, and then Nella, that's your stylist, Nella's going to make you look so beautiful, you won't even _recognise_ yourself!"

"Teeth?" Piper's hands, which were holding the thin robe closed around her, go up automatically to her mouth, with its crooked yellow teeth, and she frowns. "Is it going to hurt?"

It does.

* * *

Husk's prep team are wary of him, to say the least. They treat him like a wild animal, whispering to each other behind their hands, staying well back, dealing with him at arm's length. His response is part irritation, but mostly satisfaction. He hates them on principle, these gaudy, twittering dolls, and the further they stay away from him, the less damage he'll have to do to them.

That isn't to say they're gentle with him. In fact, because they're nervous of him, they're harsher than they might be to another tribute. They approach all at once, when they approach, and they don't make conversation, except with each other. When they bathe him, he splashes and claws out; when they wax the budding hair off his legs and chest, they have to hold him down; and eventually, when he's bitten Thaddeus, the man trying to shape his eyebrows, they give up the fight and sedate him for the rest of the process. It isn't ideal – he'll be groggy for hours – but at least they can apply themselves properly to the task in hand.

* * *

In contrast to her District partner, Sift is remarkably easy for her prep team to deal with. She undresses without argument, although she covers herself automatically with her hands, and she doesn't murmur a word of protest when the Capitolites wax her skin, massage her with rough ointments, buff her raw until she feels like she might bleed. She sets her jaw, lowers her eyes, and lets them undo the twists her mother put in her hair a lifetime ago, listens to them bicker about how to deal with the hunk of scar tissue over her eyebrow and the polio-swollen joints of her wrists.

She's used to taking orders. The fact that the prep team's orders are mostly implied doesn't change that. Throughout the whole process, the skin-chafing and the close shaping of her nails and the tugging on her thick black hair, she doesn't utter a single sound. She's taken herself somewhere far away.

* * *

The District Ten prep team have a similar experience with Lysander, although for different reasons. He's been told what to expect – not just on the train ride, but in stories Jareth told on the ranch sometimes – at every stage of the Games, and the Remake Center is no exception. He's also one of the easier tributes to deal with, simply because he's already fairly well looked-after. He needs a few hours' worth of cleaning and shaving and cleaning again, of manicures and pedicures and skin-softening, but there's a lot to work with.

The only thing the prep team can't do much about is the burn scars on his face and arm. They withdraw for a moment, in conflab, and seem to come to a consensus. The scars, Callie Highsilver explains to him, are actually going to count in his favour. Scars look good on guys, she assures him, with a glance back at the men she works with. They look tough.

Lysander, who after two hours in their care is bored and fed up, couldn't care less.

* * *

"Do we _have_ to?" Lailani's lower jaw juts out, a little cynically and a little childishly. It's not normally like her to be petulant, but she's been in here for over an hour, being buffed and brushed and waxed and massaged to within an inch of her life. For someone whose usual beauty regime is dragging a brush through her hair before a day on the ranch, this is torture.

"Shh." Timea, who seems to be the head of the prep team, puts her finger sharply to her pursed blue lips and then goes back to brushing Lailani's hair. Every stroke of the brush feels like it pulls a handful out, but she's unrelenting. "Of course we have to. Don't you want to be pretty for the parade?"

"Not really, no," Lailani mutters, but nobody's listening. Ignoring her complaints, Hella and Polly are moving in with waxing strips at the ready. The pain is, at least, a distraction from Timea tsking about how coarse her hair is.

* * *

Bernard has decided he enjoys the Remake Centre least of all the horrible things that have filled the last couple of days. The prep team are excruciatingly friendly, chatting and crowding around him as if he wasn't stark naked, when they aren't talking completely over his head. He hates how they scrutinise him, and chide him for putting his hands in his lap to cover himself up, and giggle when he blushes. Right now, he just wants this whole thing to be over.

But he's been here three hours, and they don't seem to be anything like done. His face is bleeding in several places where they scrubbed away his acne, and his body feels raw from whatever the grease was they put all over him, and he's had an injection without being told what it was for, and they're _still_ discussing how to get rid of the pockmarks. He has a sinking feeling he might well be here three hours more.

* * *

Sitting on the table with her stinging legs swinging as if she didn't have a care in the world, Daisy seems completely unaffected by the hubbub around her. Now they're done with her skin, she's chatting cheerfully with Dolores, a tiny, fine-boned woman with a fur stole apparently grafted to her shoulders, who wields the hairbrush with dangerous skill as she shares stories about tributes past.

"..._she_ was a long job, of course, but so worth it, maybe you remember seeing her on the screens, well, I did her hair for that, and for _months_ I was hearing how much people liked it, and I heard some people are still wearing it like that, can you believe it!"

Daisy smiles genuinely, expresses her amazement, and wonders idly whether her stylist will be this nice.

* * *

Clark is quiet, watching the stylists out of the corner of his eye. Marcus, the young man whose hair is coincidentally the same blue-green as Clark's eyes, is talking to the others, his long-nailed hands moving expressively. Occasionally, he glances back at Clark with something like pity, and Clark drops his eyes, smiling shyly.

He feels like a different person, and his scrubbed skin itches, as does his scalp. He's very relieved indeed when, with a smile and a little clap from Marcus, all three Capitolites totter away to call in the stylist.

* * *

Lacey's hair seems to be the biggest obstacle to her prep team. Her skin took a long time, of course, but they knew how to do it. Now, though, every hair has been removed from her artificially softened skin, her nails have been trimmed, she's been thoroughly cleaned and greased down, and they still can't work out what to do with her hair.

"It's just so... _short_!" Annette complains, picking at one ear-length curl. "And it won't lie flat, no matter _what_ we do! How do you _deal_ with this, Lacey?"

"Oh, I just don't, really!" Lacey says, cheerily and truthfully, and all three of her prep team groan.

"Well, that's it, then," Silas says, rolling his eyes. "Let's just call Pirro already. _He_ can work out how to deal with it."

* * *

Hair is apparently Teddy's problem, too. He's taking it with good grace, although he fidgets and winces until his prep team's nerves are all but shattered. The issue is that he's been cutting his own hair, with a knife, for years. His split ends, as an aghast Julia exclaims, have split ends.

They cut his hair, then washed it again, dried it, cut it, washed it, dried it, slathered it in creams and something that smelled strongly of lemon, cut it, washed it, cut it again. They've been working at his hair for over an hour when Julia finally steps back, with a loud, overwrought sigh of relief, and declares him ready.

Then he's left in the empty room of the Remake Centre, naked and stinging, with a cold wind on the newly-bared back of his neck.

* * *

Yaraminda is losing patience. She might be able to keep her temper if her prep team were at least polite, even in their banal Capitol way, but instead, all she's heard for four and a half hours is all three women bemoaning what a hopeless cause she is. She feels more naked than ever with the thick hair stripped off her body, along with what feels like half her skin, with her frizz of dark blonde hair dripping with various salves and conditioners, and with all three of them appraising her and finding her wanting. She wants to snap at them that she's a lumberjack, not some Capitol model, and can't they take her to the damn stylist yet?

But she's on her best behaviour, and so she settles for sarcastic comments that fly right over their heads, sitting stolidly on the table and glowering from under her newly shaped brows.

* * *

There's palpable relief on all the prep team's faces when they finally leave Joshua to go and fetch his stylist Orien. Joshua's talked non-stop throughout the whole process, laughing at his own jokes and making awful puns, and the three Capitolites are clearly unimpressed.

So is Orien himself. He sweeps into the room, running a hand back through his spiked, multi-coloured hair, and introduces himself with consummate politeness, but when Joshua's made ten terrible jokes in about as many seconds, the stylist's peaceable demeanour vanishes as if someone's pushed a switch.

"Shut up, will you?" he snaps, and there it might have ended, except that Joshua, whose sense of humour always overrides his sense of self-preservation, answers cheekily "Shut what up?"

* * *

Despite the pain and boredom of the preparation, Wren feels quite good about it. Looking at herself in one of the mirrored walls of the room, she sees someone looking back at her who's the kind of person she's always dreamed of being. She finally has eyelashes, long and curled and dark – she bats them at her reflection and smiles, delighted – and her frizz of hair has been smoothed and brushed and trimmed into something that's actually a style. She still isn't beautiful, but compared to where she started... She's going to be on TV, and she's going to be _pretty_.

As long as she keeps her mind off what all this is _for_, she's happy.

* * *

Jayden almost faints with relief when he meets his stylist. He'd been expecting somebody frightening, someone stiff and sharp and unsympathetic like Auralio. Instead, the woman who comes to meet him, her elaborately twisted gold-woven hair moving oddly as she walks, gives him an apparently genuine smile and introduces herself as Alba.

"Alba means white," Jayden remembers out loud. It helps him not to be too embarrassed when she walks around him, evaluating his naked body with a calculating eye. "Is that why your hair's white?"

She laughs, clearly delighted. "You know," she says with a wink, "I don't think anyone's actually got that joke before."

* * *

Taraysha, Robyn's stylist, doesn't give anything like as good a first impression. In fact, when Robyn first sees the tall, grinning, blood-red woman gliding towards her, she's already panicking. Taraysha's teeth are the only thing about her that isn't red; her hair, her clothes, her skin, even her eyes are a bright crimson. She looks, with her strange cone of hair, like a blood drop suspended in human form. The overall impression is enough to make Robyn's skin crawl.

Dispassionately, she tells Robyn to take off the thin robe she put on after the prep team left, and to stand in the middle of the room while she examines her. Slowly, under the unending scrutiny, Robyn turns almost as red as her stylist.

* * *

There's been no embarrassment in James' prep – at least, there hasn't been embarrassment on _his_ end. One of the girls on his prep team, a young blonde with dramatic sweeps of neon tattoo over both cheekbones, spent most of it pink at his constant flirting, and there was a lot of giggling on her end. James doesn't mind that. He's actually pretty happy with the day. He's comfortable naked, and it's always nice to be the centre of attention.

He's also relieved to find that his stylist, Una, is not only female, but the attractive one he's noticed in the last few Games. She must be at least thirty, but that's no barrier, particularly not when the Capitol technology makes her look so much younger. He may pose a little for her as she examines him. "You don't have to worry," he tells her, with a flirty raise of one eyebrow. "You can touch as well as look."

"Stop that." She swats his shoulder, but the corners of her plump lips are twitching. "I'm here to do a job. Now, put on your robe, and let's go."

* * *

"Una and I discussed your costumes," Fenviel says, running his finger along the sculptured ridge of his cheekbone. Storm can't take her eyes off it, that grotesque display of Capitol surgery. He undoubtedly thinks it looks good, but it's given her the heebie-jeebies since the first time she'd seen him in the Games, back when the Games were nothing to do with her. She and Selene had laughed at his ridiculous augmentations, and...

She hangs her head a little, a sudden lump in her throat, and tries to focus on what he's saying, although she finds it hard to care. She's tired from the hours in the Remake Center, and so close to where her brother and sister spent their last few days, she can't get away from the memories. Fenviel is still talking, something about fish and nets, but she can't focus. She has the horrible feeling that she's about to cry.

* * *

Silk's scowl is deeper than ever. He has no interest in what Harriette, his stylist, has to say about his costume for the chariot rides, any more than he had an interest in all the vacuous nonsense of the prep team. What concerns him – the _only_ thing that concerns him, right now – is that they found his knives, and they took them away.

It's that, more than the thinness of his robe, more than how raw and vulnerable his skin feels, which makes him feel so exposed. Nobody has ever known about the knives before, and now they're gone. He's fairly sure, too, that he won't get them back. He hadn't really thought he would get away with taking them into the Arena – not with the rules about weapons – but having them taken away still hurts.

It's also a reminder, more unavoidable than any other, that his old life is over. He can't hide in the shadows any more.

* * *

The thought of the chariot rides makes Singe want to die. She isn't interested in the chariots, or the fashion for the parade, or any of the nonsense of today. She wants to get it all over with, to move on to the Training Center and find someone she can talk to about the Games themselves. She definitely _doesn't_ want to have to be the centre of attention all over again. Her stylist, Tobias, is talking about circuitboards and hairstyles, all while whipping around her with his measuring tape. She wants to listen, but her attention's drifting. How long can it possibly take, she thinks, to make a dress? With all the technology at the Capitol's disposal, she's sure she could cut this whole thing by _hours_.

* * *

Avius is profoundly unimpressed by the whole prep team, stylist included. They're flighty, silly, weak. He might admire the fact that none of the prep team showed any qualms about causing him pain, except that it was causing _him_ pain. He isn't good with pain when he's the one it's inflicted on, and by the time his stylist is sent in, he's feeling positively homocidal.

And then there's _more_ to put up with. More fluttering and jabbering and meaningless talk about colours and themes and how tight to draw the waistband, while Rufinius sips his foul-smelling tea with one finger stuck out pretentiously. The urge to grab that finger and haul it back until it snaps is almost irresistable, but Avius grits his teeth against it.

In the Arena, he reminds himself. He can let all this out in the Arena.

* * *

Delphine isn't the type to encourage conversation, at least not when it comes to work. For the hour and a half she spend with Brooke before disappearing to adjust Brooke's outfit, she says nothing personal besides her introduction. The only questions she asks are short and to-the-point; how high a heel can you balance well in, what are your measurements, show me how you stand.

Then she's gone, leaving Brooke alone to pick at the provided food and try to rub feeling back into her legs, which are numb from some kind of grease the prep team used. Her ribs still ache, although the bruise is gone thanks to some expensive ointment she's hardly seen before.

Delphine comments on her ribs when she returns, her whole demeanour changed. Now she extrudes friendliness and concern, asking about Brooke's scars, wanting to know about her. Brooke isn't sure, but she thinks she might prefer the hostile Delphine who took her measurements. At least then she knew what she was up against.

* * *

Platinum is easily irritated, and even if he wasn't, the last few hours would have driven him to the edge. It's a very contained kind of irritation – he hasn't lashed out, and in fact, he's hardly spoken to his prep team – but it's in every tense line of muscle, in the glitter of his eyes, in the taut edge to his voice when he snaps at Julia that he doesn't _care_ what she has planned, as he'll have to wear it anyway.

She takes his frustration with good grace and a friendly smile, and he's actually slightly impressed. She is, to be fair, quite impressive. This is only her second year in the Games, and already she's a stylist for District One, on top of which, he doesn't think she can be more than thirty. Even more impressive. She's quite normal-looking, compared to the other stylists, and relaxed, talking to him as if she actually cares what he thinks.

She starts to take the edge off his irritation, in fact. That's most impressive of all.

* * *

Quaius fits the final stitch to Giada's outfit himself, helping her down from the little stool where she's been standing while he finishes the outfit. "There's a necklace in the box over there," he tells her, indicating the nearby dresser. "The final piece for it, if you will. Put it on, then come back here and tell me what you think." For the first time, his professional attitude drops ever so slightly, and he smiles, teeth glittering silver.

Giada does as she's told, nodding to him but not returning the smile. She likes his no-nonsense professional calm better. It suits her own.

Lifting the slim strands of blonde hair which fall from her elaborate hairstyle, she carefully fastens the necklace and allows Quaius to adjust it before he turns her to the mirror. She regards herself closely for a moment, without vanity, but with a cool kind of respect for the work they've done.

In the mirror, meeting her reflection's eyes, she quirks a little, satisfied smile.


End file.
